


When the Moment Comes

by stoic_swan



Series: Disparate Paths [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Podfic Welcome, Sexual Content, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:54:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 52,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24738829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stoic_swan/pseuds/stoic_swan
Summary: Will is torn about his identity: Is he a special agent manipulating the Chesapeake Ripper, or is he on the precipice of his own becoming? Jack and Hannibal both believe Will is their man on the inside, but after killing Randall Tier, Will's loyalty becomes increasingly ambiguous. The brutal, intimate murder forces Will to turn to Hannibal than he would like. Small changes can have large consequences.Canon compliant through the beginning of Season 2, Episode 10 (the mutilation of Randall Tier). AU canon divergence from the museum investigation onward, thought lots of plot pieces and script segments are used early on as we work from the point of divergence.
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: Disparate Paths [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1804768
Comments: 102
Kudos: 395





	1. Chapter 1

Standing sentry over the body of a man who wanted to be a beast, time was indeterminable. The blood on Will's knuckles had begun to thicken, and though the abrasions were still raw, liquid no longer dripped down his fingers. Before him, on the same dining table Hannibal used to stage his culinary theatrics, lay Randall Tier. Snow-reflected moonlight illuminated his pallid skin. Much of the room was shadowed, making the space seem smaller, tighter than he knew it to be. Yet, Will could barely stand to think of the near-profane exposure light would bring to his work. 

Will watched Randall’s frozen face; he waited for it to once again blacken into the wendigo or mold into Hannibal Lecter’s sharp features. Neither happened, and a small whispering voice that still sounded like Will Graham, professor and patron saint of strays, reminded him this was further affirmation that his brain was no longer boiling within his skull. However, that voice belonged to a man stranded on the shore of Will's expansive consciousness, watching as the rest of him dived deeper into the pools of blackening blood on Tier’s face. The darkness of the room and the blood joined and separated in his vision, waves of black blinding him and then waning to return his sight. With no one but the dead to observe or influence him, Will wondered what parts of himself would be pulled from the sea.

The sound of the door opening didn’t startle Will. He had been waiting for this moment. The renewed jolt of adrenaline that flooded his limbs and stomach in warm heat suggested that he had, perhaps, been waiting for this moment longer than he had realized. Hannibal saw Will first, his eyes shadowed and searching. His gaze swept over Tier’s body in a fluid stroke, and his unchanged expression unambiguously proclaimed that Tier himself was not particularly significant in this moment. Hannibal swiftly turned and locked the door behind him. Will’s stare remained fixed on Randall Tier’s unchanging visage. 

“I'd say this makes us even. I sent someone to kill you, you sent someone to kill me.” Will looked up to meet Hannibal’s eyes. “Even-steven.” 

Will knew that in spite of the cloaking darkness, Hannibal would see beyond the rigid stillness of his tense frame. Will imagined his skin becoming transparent under Hannibal's scrutiny, revealing each nerve vibrating in a steady, pulsing melody-- the beat of fists hitting dead skin. He had never existed more fully in this world. 

“Consider it an act of reciprocity.”

Will smiled grimly as he said, “Polite society normally puts such taboos on taking a life.”

Hannibal had assumed his usual mask-- eyes thoughtful, corners of his mouth upturned almost imperceptibly. He walked toward the table, peering at Tier’s face as though he was checking a place setting. His voice was impossibly casual when he replied, “Without death, we'd be at a loss. It's the prospect of death that drives us to greatness.” He paused, brought his gaze back to Will’s face. “Did you kill him with your hands?”

At the question, Hannibal’s eyes quickly moved over Will’s body. Will felt predatory and raw. 

“It was…,” he paused, transfixed yet again by the blood enshrining his knuckles, “...intimate.” 

“It deserves intimacy. You were Randall Tier's final enemy.” 

Satisfaction tinged Hannibal’s voice as he walked toward Will. Hannibal hooked his left hand under Will’s and brought it to elbow height. His right hand caught Will gently over his wrist. Even with the delicacy Hannibal used to cradle Will’s hand, the touch felt like tiny, electric pinpricks burning Will's over-sensitive skin. Hannibal’s eyes met Will’s for a moment, but the touch and examining gaze were too much for Will to process. He looked back at Tier. Tier was safe; Hannibal was not. 

“These should be cleaned and bandaged,” Hannibal spoke slowly, carefully. “May I?” 

Will wondered if he was like a wounded animal or a rabid one in Hannibal’s estimation. The other man's intense curiosity simmered beneath his polite words; he had found a fine mask, indeed, and it continued to serve him well. Will was not yet ready to let the world back in. His mind was the quietest it had been since the moment he squeezed the trigger of the gun pointed at Garrett Jacob Hobbs. The finger underneath Will’s hand stroked his palm once, soliciting a response.

“Yes,” Will answered numbly.

The hand on Will’s wrist dropped away, and the other slid up to lightly hold Will's elbow. Hannibal used this hold to guide him to a seat. Hannibal disappeared and returned with cotton pads, bandages, and a small glass bottle of what looked like epsom salt. He put these down by Will as well as a striped hand towel and a square, white porcelain dish. Hannibal left again, and Will could hear running water as a large pitcher was filled. During this small flurry of activity, Hannibal did not hide that he was studying Will, although Will only looked intently on the table in front of him.

Hannibal settled beside Will. He poured a small amount of the epsom salt in the porcelain dish followed by the warm water from the pitcher. Will imagined he could see every granule of salt swirl and dissolve. Hannibal again collected Will’s hand between his own and guided him to the warm water. The touch was less shocking now that the adrenaline had ceased its assault on Will’s nervous system; if anything, he found the touch comforting in its tender surety. Will though absently that the association of the man beside him and the word “comforting” must indicate that he had truly, finally broken with reality, and if Will could have laughed at that moment, he would have. 

Hannibal worked methodically but unhurriedly. Will watched the white bowl fill with red clouds. The sound of the water moving gently around the dish as Hannibal cleaned each knuckle drew Will inward. His stream beckoned him. His mind had been a blissful void for quite a while now-- hours, even-- but he was enticed by the familiarity of water circling waders, trees rustling softly, and sun warming his cheeks. Will was almost there when Hannibal's voice shattered the vision.

“Don't go inside, Will. You'll want to retreat, you'll want it as we want to jump from balconies, as the glint of the rails tempts us when we hear the approaching train.” Hannibal adopted the same tone he used during their sessions, yet he dropped his gaze from Will’s face when he added, “Stay with me.” 

“Where else would I go?” Will’s voice was even, but there was a bite behind his words.

“You have everywhere to go.” Hannibal let silence fall between them for a few moments as he continued his work. “You should be very pleased. I am.”

“Of course you are."

Will knew his words were only a feeble snap of his jaws. He felt very far away. He was drifting somewhere beyond Hannibal’s unconcealed pleasure at the outcome of his orchestration, beyond the room, beyond his own irritation. Hannibal had almost finished wrapping Will’s knuckles when he spoke again.

“When you killed Randall, did you fantasize you were killing me?” He stared at Will’s face until Will was compelled to look up.  
The question caused Will's wandering mind to return violently to his body. The memory of Hannibal's face submitting beneath his fists elicited a surge of unexpended energy that threatened to explode from every muscle. He was now acutely aware of his stinging hand and the bruises surely forming under his clothing. His silence answered Hannibal's question. 

“Most of what we do, most of what we believe, is motivated by death,” Hannibal replied to the unspoken admission.

When Will did finally speak, his voice was a raw whisper: “I’ve never felt as alive as I did when I was killing him.” 

The corners of Hannibal’s mouth drew up, and his gaze warmed. His eyes scanned Will’s face affectionately, and Will wondered if it was genuine or part of the game they were playing. Possibly both, he realized. Hannibal looked away and finished his work on Will’s hand.

“Then you owe Randall Tier a debt. How will you repay him?”

Will sat back as Hannibal finally released him. Grim visions flashed rapidly: A man crafted into a cello; a dark-haired girl crucified on antlers; flesh cut into chunks and wrapped in butcher’s paper; a totem of bodies; a chest flayed open like a canvas. Which of these had Will seen, and which had Will’s mind constructed? 

He rose and walked in a half circle around the body at the other end of the dining table, a predator once again. How well the suit fit him. Hannibal watched intently. Will leaned close and studied Randall’s face from only inches away. The eyes revealed nothing Will did not already know, but behind a film of blood, the white point of one of Tier’s canines glinted. And Will could _see_.


	2. Chapter 2

Will left the museum just after 3 A.M. He had neither the time nor the desire to stay and admire his creation; the feeling of stretching skin tight over fossilized bone still lingered under his fingertips. Will wondered how often he would see the glint of moonlight on tusks in his dreams. 

Driving home, Will’s mind was once again very loud. He was aware he couldn’t trust his own thoughts right now; he was both too tired and too exhilarated to distinguish which parts of him were Randall, Jack, Hannibal, or himself. Will had called Jack immediately following the attack; he knew even the slightest hint of delay would plant seeds of distrust. Each minute Will waited would have added a stone to the side of the scale suggesting that Will was unstable, and Will could not afford to lose Jack’s support now. He was so close to yanking the cord placed gently around Hannibal’s neck. 

Jack had insisted on driving to Wolf Trap so that evidence of the attack could be collected to protect Will if-- and when-- he was implicated in Tier’s death. Jack had worked quickly and wordlessly while Will wrote and recorded a statement on his own porch in the cold night air. When Crawford had exited the house, he looked into the black fields rolling from Will’s home into the unknown, where Randall Tier had waited. He had heaved a great sigh, dusted his gloved hands together, and turned toward Will.  
“The house is cleared for reentry. I don’t like this plan, Will. There’s too much at risk.” Jack paused, then asked, “Are you sure you’re able to do this?”  


Will’s mouth had moved before he could leash it: “What is the ‘this’ you’re referring to, Jack? Being attacked in my own home? My dog being attacked? Having to scrub blood off of my hands yet again? Or are you talking about four hours from now when I’ll be at my own crime scene pretending to profile myself? I wouldn’t have to do ‘this’, Jack, if Lecter had been caught the first time.”

Will’s indignation felt righteous and pure; he wasn’t sure he deserved it.

To his credit, Jack didn’t snap back or try to bend Will’s resolve.

“Will, you killed a man, and you’re telling me that you’re going to display it in a public place. All I want is Hannibal Lecter in a prison cell. If this doesn’t help us do that, I can’t defend it. I’ve only told the OIG what they need to know; I won’t be able to protect you if you get lost.”

Will could feel himself deflate as the battle he had armed himself for failed to manifest. 

“I’ve told you I’m a good fisherman. Finding the right bait is the most challenging part. Hannibal has to believe in me, and we won’t get another opportunity like this.”

Jack examined Will once more, nodded, and left without looking back. The plan had been for Will to wait for an hour to ensure the museum was clear of security. When Will finished dumping the body, he was to return to Wolf Trap. When the body was found by the 4 A.M. security rotation, Jack would initiate investigation per normal procedure, including asking Dr. Lecter to consult. Will’s display in Hannibal’s dining room had been an improvisation that Jack need not know about. Jack would have found it an incredibly unnecessary risk and a tremendous waste of time, but Will knew it was possible to finish all of his errands by the 4 A.M. deadline.

Will had returned Randall Tier to his home to deconstruct him in the sanctuary of his locked barn. As Will had left Hannibal’s home, the older man sent him into the night with one final warning: “However brief your meeting with Mr. Tier may be, stay present for its entirety. He is your guest and thus deserving of your full attention.” The words now snaked through Will’s thoughts. 

Will prepared the barn as quickly as he could, covering every surface that any part of Tier might come into contact with in plastic. It reminded him of his father butchering deer in their large, rickety shed. His father had occasionally taken him hunting in the thick Louisiana woods before it became apparent that Will was destined to be a fisherman, not a hunter. At thirteen, his father had imparted the skill of field dressing a buck, and Will had emerged from the forest that day with blood up to his elbows. His father had told him that a man who could procure his own sustenance from nature was unlikely to starve; in spite of his sensitivity and vivid imagination even at that young age, Will had known hunger and greedily consumed his father’s teaching. 

Will’s career in forensics and work with the FBI had only refined the knowledge imparted much earlier in life, though being able to navigate a human corpse was arguably much more valuable in his current endeavor than being able to remove the intestines of a large mammal. Of course, the purpose of field dressing was to preserve the meat, not explore the cause of death. 

Will managed to maneuver Randall’s body onto a sheet laid over a large wooden work table. The vision for Randall Tier’s repayment was already reality in his mind. Will skinned Randall’s arms and legs with the thoughtful touch of a worshipful lover, careful not to damage the delicate hide slipping off of the muscle and fat below. Will realized it would be necessary to decapitate the corpse to obtain the required flesh and bone from Randall’s face. If Will had earlier been asked to imagine his reaction to relieving a corpse of the burden of its head, he would have undoubtedly expressed revulsion; he would have felt his own bones cracking under an imagined blade. Yet, in this moment, Will only felt the thrum of quiet power vibrating within his very atoms. By his own choice, Randall had not been a man for a long time, and death did not transform him back into one. 

Soon, Will had collected all of the materials desired for the construction of his monument. For a moment, Will was disconcerted to realize that he only needed a small portion of the bounty Randall’s body provided. He couldn’t imagine dumping Tier’s body somewhere, nor could he picture himself setting a mangled corpse aflame. Not enough people at the FBI knew about Jack and Will’s manipulations for Jack to be able to take care of the remaining corpse. _And your vision cannot be changed now,_ a voice whispered from the back of Will’s mind. He told himself the voice was Hannibal’s and an unfortunate but not unexpected byproduct of Will’s constant absorption of those around him. 

Managing a full-size adult male body was not feasible; Will’s options were dissection or preservation. Will could not shake Hannibal’s final directive. Yes, even Randall Tier deserved better than a distracted butcher. Will worked quickly, feeling the flesh and fluids to prevent his own retreat into himself. When Will’s work was done, a few meager gifts hurriedly collected from Randall Tier were packed into his freezer, and the rest of the body was locked into the shed. The outside temperature would remain below freezing for many more days. It was almost 2 A.M.

Will burned his gloves in the backyard. The sight of his clean, bandaged hands was almost vulgar to him. He washed his face quickly in his bathroom sink and changed his clothes. He put his soiled clothing directly into a plastic garbage bag; they would all burn tonight, but his time was limited now.  


Will forced his mind into the void that had driven him immediately following the attack, and he could remember having no conscious thought until he was back on the road home, his errand at the museum complete. 

At 4:20 A.M., less than an hour after Will had arrived home, the call came. Jack had not yet arrived at the scene; he told Will he needed to come to the museum because a body had been found. Jack telling Will these details as though he didn’t already know them was surprisingly helpful. On the drive, Will mentally played back his day before Randall Tier crashed through his living room window. He had to convince himself it ended before the attack; the Will that entered the museum had been woken up in the middle of the night and was seeing the crime scene with fresh eyes. It was easier to adopt the view of the man he had been only hours ago than to try to follow a script. 

Will parked and took a few deep breaths. On the steering wheel, his white bandage looked almost silver, and moons of browning blood adorned each knuckle. He should remove the fabric; the white would be harder to hide than the busted knuckles themselves. Yet, he found himself reluctant. These wounds were not for public consumption, even if the FBI was unintentionally sponsoring them. They were his. _And Hannibal’s_ , he thought. The unbidden voice whispered again, _You brought him your kill and your wounds, and he helped make you whole again._

Will withdrew his fingers from the fabric, rubbed his palms to his eyes, and took a deep breath. He retrieved a pair of gloves from the center console and put them on. There was no reason to unwrap fresh wounds. 

In the museum, Randall Tier’s deformed face greeted Will with a snarl, and Will was pleasantly surprised to find the scene looked almost foreign to him. Where Will had been in the darkness, there now was the glow of multiple lights; where Will had been gifted silence, there now was chattering movement; where Will had worked in the medium of flesh, there now was drying skin framed by yellow evidence markers. 

Hannibal and Jack had already arrived by the time Will met Mr. Tier once again. It was better that way; Will already experienced far too much time alone with both men that evening. He held back a moment before making his presence known, realizing with a small degree of self-loathing that he wanted to watch Hannibal seeing his creation. He anticipated Lecter’s reaction would be minimal, controlled in Jack’s presence. Will couldn’t even say what precisely he desired to see-- concern, perhaps, would have been gratifying-- but the sudden urge to watch stopped Will in his tracks. He paused in the shadows just outside the line of glaring lamps as he saw Jack and Hannibal approaching the beast. 

Hannibal wore the placid yet engaged face one would expect of a professional associated with the FBI. He didn’t stare or frown; there was no shock or recognition. Will pictured Freddie Lounds popping out from behind a sarcophagus, snapping a picture of the Chesapeake Ripper observing a competitor’s work, and being terribly disappointed by the dull image. The absurd scene made Will realize that he was, in fact, very tired now. Hannibal ostensibly maintained an expression of staid professional scrutiny, but Will found what he sought. In spite of the lamps set up by the officers around Tier’s corpse, Hannibal’s eyes were blacker and shinier from his blown pupils, and his gaze moved a bit too quickly over the grotesque figure, as though carving it into his memory; he may very well have been doing just that, considering the man’s aptitude for sketching. Excitement, Will thought. Pride, a competing voice whispered.

“Randall Tier was denied the respectful end that he himself denied others,” Jack pondered aloud.

“This is a humiliation,” Hannibal said, affirming Crawford. “A final indignity.”

A flash of heat rose through Will’s chest as he stepped into the unfolding scene and said, “He isn't mocking him. This isn't disdain. He's commemorating him.” 

It was unwise to disagree with Jack’s reasonable assertion, just as it was unwise for Will to meet Hannibal’s stare a beat too long as he corrected him. Hannibal broke the eye contact and responded coolly, “This killer has no fear for the consequences of what he's done.” 

Hannibal couldn’t help but look back when Will quickly replied, “No guilt.”

Will didn’t turn to Jack, but he could feel the man’s eyes burning into him. Will had failed to properly warn him of the degree of mutilation that had been enacted on Tier’s body; moreover, Crawford would not appreciate Will both disagreeing with Jack’s more forgiving profile and claiming unprovoked that the murderer felt no guilt. He wondered idly if Jack would ask him where the rest of Mr. Tier had gone.

Avoiding the withering stare directed at him from Agent Crawford, Will took a few steps forward and found his eyes closing, a vision coming to him unsolicited. The whispering voice of Randall Tier drew him closer.  
_________________________________  
“You forced me to kill you,” Will accused the ghastly figure before him in his mind.

_I didn't force you to enjoy it. You made me a monument._

“You're welcome.”

_The monument is not to me. It's to you._

“I gave you what you want. This is who you are. What you feel finally matches the reality of what I see,” Will jabbed back at the creature’s accusation.

_This is my becoming. And it’s yours._

But Will knew that wasn’t true. He would transform, but it would not be at the behest of a man who had to robe himself in furs and fangs to kill strangers. “This is my design.”  
__________________________________

The museum came back into focus as Will opened his eyes. He had anticipated performing for the investigators, and it was easy to borrow from his vision and the thoughts that naturally came to him at the sight of the crime scene. Will spoke without hesitation.

“He knew his killer. There is a familiarity here. It was someone who met him, understood him. It was someone like him. Different pathology, same instinct.”

“His killer empathized with him?” Jack asked from behind Will. 

“Don't mistake empathy for understanding, Jack,” Will said.

Will felt a blunt stab of pain and affection for Jack. He wanted to understand Will and see the part of him that saved lives, not ended them. However, Will was fixed in the moment. He would later rationalize to Jack that this was better for maintaining appearances.

“If there's anything, it's envy,” Will concluded.

“Envy?” Jack’s surprise was evident.

“Randall Tier came into his own much easier than whoever killed him.”

“This is a fledgling killer. He's never killed before, not like this,” Hannibal added, and Will could now feel Hannibal’s eyes burning into him as well. Between Jack and Hannibal, Will wondered if even ashes would be left.

“Not like this, no. This is the nightmare that followed him out of his dreams.”

Will didn’t know how much longer he could endure absorbing the competing needs of the men behind him; he felt himself losing the focus he so desperately needed right now. Will turned sharply to Jack and asked with a hint of irritation, “Is this all you need from me?”

Jack nodded, although he looked like he wanted to capture Will and put him back in a cage. 

“I may need you by the lab after the body is processed. Keep your phone close by.”

“Of course,” Will replied just above a whisper; he refused to meet Jack’s eyes. 

Will walked between Jack and Hannibal holding his breath, and he did not inhale again until he was in the cold predawn air. The few officers outside were securing the area to prevent the influx of morning visitors from entering, but they otherwise paid no attention to any of the investigators entering and exiting the building. Will leaned against a stone pillar, keeping to its shadow. The sting of the air and helped ground him. His wrist was exposed between his coat and gloves, and he pressed it against the stone. It was rough and cold, and when Will dug his skin into it, he felt like the world around him was real once more. He remained there for several breaths, eyes closed.

“Will?”

The dueling halves of Will’s psyche once again leaped in opposing directions at the sound of his name leaving Hannibal’s mouth. Will looked at the man approaching him without acknowledging him. Hannibal scanned the area and approached Will with the same professional veneer he had worn inside. 

“You look unwell. I’ll walk you to your car.” 

Hannibal said it as a gentle command, not an invitation. Will found himself too tired to insist childishly that he was perfectly capable of walking alone. The two men began on one of the paths leading away from the museum, and Will unconsciously dug his injured hand deeper into his pockets.

“That was quite a display,” Hannibal commented, amused but not overly engaged. 

Will grimaced. He would have to continue playing his role for a few minutes more. Hannibal was enjoying himself far too much to let Will’s annoyance deter him.

“Yes, almost impressive for an individual who has likely never engaged with this level of violence before,” he answered. Will tried to imagine he was hearing this conversation from the outside, and he deemed this response passable if awkward.

“Perhaps he has killed before. This is only his first attempt at artistry.”

Will knew without looking that Hannibal was watching Will in his peripheral vision. 

“It almost makes one wonder how elegantly executed the first murders of more prolific serial killers were. Take the Chesapeake Ripper, for instance. He’s surgical in his precision now, but he must have left a few messes along the way,” Will replied, making a great effort to sound genuinely curious.

If anything, Hannibal’s amusement only grew at Will’s returned jab. 

“A riveting premise for a book-- only if the bureau fails to meet your needs for greater stimulation, of course. I’m sure Ms. Lounds would lend her talents.”

Riveting, Will echoed in his thoughts. At that moment, if he could have slugged Hannibal without drawing attention, he would have. The image of Hannibal’s face on Randall Tier’s body as Will’s fists demanded blood flashed into his mind, causing a sudden rise of heat. Will stopped walking at the next intersection of paths.

“As much as I’ve enjoyed this conversation, Dr. Lecter, we’ve reached our destination. Any further discussion might be considered billable hours now that I’m a patient of yours.”

“The pleasure has been entirely mine. However, it seems we are far from our destination.”

Hannibal turned his body toward Will and peered at him with the intense interest usually reserved for their more philosophical discourse. Will refused to think of their conversations as therapy sessions out of principle. Needing something to do with his hands, Will absently flexed his aching hand. At the movement, Hannibal’s eyes darted to the gloved hand he had tended only hours earlier. For a moment, Will could tell that Hannibal’s mind had wandered back to his dining table and the bowl of bloody salt water. 

Hannibal caught himself, smoothly snapped back into their superficial conversation, and said, “Do take care of yourself, Will. Rest.” He turned to leave without waiting for a response, taking long strides into the gray streets. 

“Hannibal.”

Will realized with surprise that the calling voice was his own. Like in the museum, he seemed both compelled and removed; here and not here. Dr. Lecter turned, his expression one of unmasked curiosity. Will found that he, too, was curious as to what was going to come out of his mouth next. 

“Do you have any openings today?”

Hannibal’s face warmed and opened into a small smile. 

“For you, Will, always.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We start going off script in this chapter. In the interest of citing my sources, there's a reference to a textbook about physics (sexy, sexy physics, amirite?) at the very end; the specific page referenced can be found here: https://phys.libretexts.org/Bookshelves/University_Physics/Book%3A_University_Physics_(OpenStax)/Map%3A_University_Physics_I_-_Mechanics%2C_Sound%2C_Oscillations%2C_and_Waves_(OpenStax)/05%3A_Newton%27s_Laws_of_Motion/5.06%3A_Newton’s_Third_Law
> 
> Thank you for continuing to read!

Will finally collapsed into his bed as the sun rose. His dreams were disjointed fragments of the previous day; he woke before noon after a few hours of uneasy rest. He hated sleeping in the afternoon, the remnant of a blue collar work ethic that ran deep. His pack lazed around him in the sunny spots on the floor. Will felt as though he’d lived multiple lifetimes in a single night. He rose unhurriedly and opened the door for the dogs; they, too, seemed to be sluggish this morning.

“I’m sorry for the hard night, everyone.” 

The dogs looked at him with affectionate curiosity, and Will felt his life sliding back into place for a moment. If it were not for the plastic sheet covering his window, Will could lie to himself. He could be the man in the museum constructing a profile that was both true and untrue. The dogs filed in, and Will wandered to his bathroom to shower. He avoided looking into the mirror. 

Hot water beat on Will’s shoulders, and the sweat of the night’s activities dripped off his body and disappeared down the drain. As he washed himself, he examined his body. Was it the same, or was there a definitive, visible sign that he had changed? There were bruises, but he had been bruised and bloodied before. Should he have been made anew in the blood of Randall Tier, or would his moment of rebirth occur when Hannibal Lecter was escorted to the back of a police car? Was he attempting to baptize himself in the shower, or was that what Hannibal had done last night in a shallow dish of salted water? Will’s thoughts meandered through his weary mind, colliding into one another and gliding away again. He felt no guilt to cleanse away, and that worried him more than anything else. Will turned the water cold and finished bathing as quickly as possible.

The window would have to be fixed this morning; the below-freezing temperatures demanded action. Last winter, he had replaced the home’s ancient windows with new ones that both consistently locked and blocked the frigid air more effectively. However, he had learned from years of doing his own repairs that mild hoarding could reap great benefits in an emergency, and he had stored away a few of the old windows in the shed. He was expected to be at Hannibal’s home for a very late breakfast, which Will assumed meant “brunch” but he could not imagine that specific portmanteau crossing Hannibal’s lips, but he found avoiding a frozen pipe bursting in his kitchen much more pressing. Will wandered out to the large shed, gave the lock on his freezer a tug just to reassure himself, and gathered the materials to do at least a quick job; he would still have to adjust and insulate the perimeter better later. His previous night’s clothing burned in his fireplace as he worked.

Will was not surprised that Jack hadn’t messaged him. He surmised that Crawford was too angry-- and possibly too confused-- to even attempt communication, and Will briefly wondered how many interns had been shouted at that morning. Will did all he could to avoid leaving for Baltimore, but eventually, he could avoid Hannibal no longer. Worse yet, he only had himself to blame. With a final check that the dog’s water dishes were filled, Will set out.

When he arrived at Hannibal’s home, he tried to imagine carrying Randall Tier’s body into the luxurious space and spreading him across the dining table for Hannibal’s eyes to feast upon. However, the early afternoon light lent a safe mundanity to the shadowy world of Will’s memory. He felt slow walking to Hannibal’s door, and even his knock sounded weak to his own ears. Hannibal greeted him with a practiced welcoming smile. 

“Hello, Will.”

He was wearing a pair of smartly tailored charcoal slacks and a mint green dress shirt with the sleeves rolled crisply just below the elbows-- _hospital corners,_ Will thought. Though this was downright under-dressed by Lecter standards, compared to Will’s own slightly wrinkled navy blue shirt, worn black pants, and hair that had air dried in unkempt curls, Hannibal might as well have been in tails. 

“You look refreshed,” Will grumbled. 

“Thank you,” Hannibal answered, not unpleased. 

“No plaid today? I thought it was good manners to dress for guests.” 

“Nobody’s perfect, not even me.” Hannibal’s amiable, unflappable responses calmed and infuriated Will in equal measure. “I think a good meal will make a world of difference.”

Will bit his tongue and let himself be ushered inside to the kitchen. 

“Is there anything I can help with?”

Hannibal shook his head and gestured toward the armchair in the corner. Will didn’t argue. As soon as he sunk into the chair, he felt exhaustion creep back into his bones. He let his head lean back slightly and his eyes close as the familiar sounds of cooking provided a lulling white noise. After a few moments, the sounds ceased. Will looked up at Hannibal, who had paused his work and was staring at him with something akin to concern etched across his brow. Well, as concerned as Hannibal ever seemed.

“Coffee?” Hannibal asked as he placed his hand on a stainless steel urn. 

Will started to stand, but Hannibal’s raised hand admonished him. 

“Will, today is clearly...challenging. Allow me.”

Will exercised incredible restraint and did not comment on Hannibal’s history of helpfulness, though his face must have expressed more than he had intended. Hannibal walked to the armchair and handed Will a mug. He brought his own mug up to his nose and deeply inhaled. 

“Figs, brown sugar, and cedar woodsmoke.” 

Will glanced at his mug and thought _Caffeine_ as he took a sip.

Hannibal returned to his place behind the island and continued his work. Meanwhile, Will nursed the warm mug between his sore hands and lost himself in memories of the previous night. A kaleidoscope of images circled behind his eyes: Glass, blood, snapping bones, the weight of a body, water red with blood, a tender touch, skin, bones, teeth, stone, plastic on a wooden table…

“Where are you right now, Will?” Hannibal's voice seemed to echo.

“My home.”

“And what are you doing there?”

“Butchering Randall Tier.”

Hannibal halted his work momentarily at that, then resumed.

“Butchering is an interesting choice of words. You killed him in self-defense.”

Will grinned sourly and said, “I didn’t put a chunk of his thigh in a deep freezer in self-defense.”

Hannibal’s forearm flexed almost imperceptibly, tightening the grip on the spatula in his hand for just a moment. He stared intently at the meat frying in the pan in front of him. 

“I gather you were an attentive host, then.” 

Minutes passed in silence. 

“I’ll meet you in the dining room. It’s already set.”

Will nodded and walked with his coffee cup to the place settings prepared on the table. Hannibal soon followed, carrying two plates and a small, rustic wicker basket. Will discreetly inspected the plates as they were put on the intricately embroidered placemats. 

“I think I actually recognize most of what’s on my plate. Are you feeling unwell, Dr. Lecter?” 

Will was all too happy to use Hannibal’s earlier words against him, although it was the gentlest of prods. Hannibal gave a small smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes.

“I must admit, I changed my menu when I saw you today on my doorstep. It appeared that comfort food was in order-- or at least more appropriate than my intended fare.”

A perfect quiche tart sat in the center of Will’s plate, surrounded by expertly chopped fruit; three slices of a meat that resembled bacon lay to the side of the quiche in perfect parallel lines. Will realized he had not eaten in over a day, and he felt the pains of hunger sharply stab at his stomach. There were thick swirls of goat cheese as well as impossibly fine ribbons of spinach, splinters of orange pepper, and perfect rounds of leek. Hannibal removed the white towel from the wicker basket he had placed on the table, releasing the aroma of salty butter and grain from the croissants nestled inside. At that moment, it was the most tempting meal Will had ever had placed before him. Still, he couldn’t help wondering at the strips of meat glazed in a thick, transparent liquid. They smelled smokey and sweet, but they were much leaner than the bacon Will typically ate. 

Hannibal caught Will’s questioning expression, and as he sat and folded his cloth napkin over his lap, Hannibal casually said, “I don’t think you require any exposition for today’s meal. Take what you enjoy, and leave what you do not.” 

Will had never heard that disclaimer offered at this dining table, and he realized it was as close as the other man may ever come to excusing a guest from partaking in one of his more exotic dishes.

Will waited until Hannibal looked up and caught his eye. As much as it pained him to do so, Will held his gaze steadily and said with no artifice, “Thank you, Hannibal.”

“You’re most welcome, Will.”

The two stared at one another a moment longer before beginning the meal in earnest. 

The sudden, aching hunger commandeered Will’s thoughts, and he struggled to not wolf his plate down like a newly rescued stray. _The first meal is the hardest,_ the voice-- his voice-- whispered. _They think it’s a trap._ A few minutes passed in comfortable quiet, but Will knew he was on borrowed time. Hannibal laying his knife and fork on his plate and clearing his throat was the equivalent of a death knell.

“You surprised me last night. You seem to have something of a knack for that. You may find it difficult to believe, but the greatest surprise was you requesting to see me today.”

“For most people, it would’ve been the tusks,” Will dead-panned and put another bite of quiche in his mouth.

This time the grin did reach Hannibal’s eyes. Will felt a surge of pride that he instantly wanted to crush.

“I considered that perhaps you would try to kill me today.”

“And why would I do that, Dr. Lecter?” Will felt petty delight.

“You promised a reckoning, and you strike me as a man who strives to keep his promises. I admire that greatly.” Hannibal paused and seemed very careful in choosing his next words. “Last night, you said we were even. Not to speak disparagingly of the recently-departed Mr. Tier, but I have reservations that his demise constitutes a reckoning capable of restoring equilibrium.”

Will examined Hannibal’s face looking for a clue as to whether his observation was genuine or another example of his ability to wield artificial candor like a sword. Will laid his silverware onto his plate, adjusted the napkin on his lap, and sat back in his chair. He forced himself not to cross his arms defensively but to keep the square set of his shoulders. 

“There’s a common expression: When all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail.” Will paused, his eyes trained on the table. “My reckoning no longer requires a body count.”

Will felt himself flush as his anger simmered. He forced himself to take a sip of his coffee.

“Your theory also precludes the possibility of forgiveness.”

Hannibal looked ahead but Will could tell he saw nothing; his mind was dissecting this thought, his body in limbo until it finished.

“Forgiveness is not dissimilar to love. A person cannot experience it alone. One must give; one must take.” 

Will could read the tension settling in Hannibal’s bones. He kept his cutlery near. 

“It’s possible I have been guilty of too often taking. “Did you come here today seeking an apology?” 

Will shook his head. 

“I don’t know why I’m here,” he whispered.

The words hung in the air, thick with meaning. After a long moment of silence, Hannibal stood, carefully pushed his chair in, and walked around the table to where Will sat. He put one hand on Will’s shoulder and allowed himself to openly search Will’s face with his eyes.

“I don’t regret as much as you would like,” Hannibal said slowly, truthfully. “But I was not without error. I consider you a friend; that’s something I’ve rarely desired in my life. Do you forgive me?” 

Will wanted to say no. He wanted to rail at Hannibal and the injustice that he could destroy Will’s life and then pursue forgiveness. Most of all, Will wanted Hannibal to suffer because Will found himself unable to deny him. Will could only answer Hannibal's honesty with his own.

“No, but I will.”

Neither man moved for a long time. Will hoped the hand on his shoulder could feel his rage and pain along with the loathsome forgiveness he found himself granting. As if responding to Will’s unspoken desire, Hannibal withdrew his hand and took a step back. 

“You do not require death, but do you require penance?”

“What has been done cannot be undone,” Will answered pragmatically.

“Man repents to absolve himself and satisfy a mercurial god. Rectifying his misdeeds is not necessary.”

Will considered this. He could tell Hannibal was sincere. Will failed to protect Abigail or himself, but he could attempt one good deed.

“Do you care for Alana?” Will asked, though the question was unnecessary. Will knew his first request.

“I have known her for many years and believe the world generally benefits from her presence in it,” Hannibal answered evenly.

“Whatever private relationship that has developed between you...end it. She isn’t made for…,” Will searched for a word, “this. _Us_.” 

Hannibal nodded, his face displaying neither displeasure nor satisfaction. Will’s word choice was manipulative but not untrue. 

“She was going to join me this evening for dinner. I’ll cancel tonight,” Hannibal looked at Will, “and all of our engagements thereafter.” 

Will doubted it would be so easy to shake Alana’s misguided loyalty, but he did not doubt Hannibal would do what he said.

“Perhaps you’d like to join me instead, Will. It would be a shame to let my preparations go to waste. I’d be very pleased to ease your discomfort today however I may.”

Will did not respond, and Hannibal didn’t push him to do so. Hannibal returned to his seat, and as the earlier unease dissipated, he returned to his meal with great enthusiasm. When Will picked up a croissant, he cheerily began waxing poetic about the painstaking process of baking the pastry authentically. _Relief,_ Will thought as he listened. Well-concealed relief, but relief all the same. 

As Will cut the first piece of meat from the honeyed strips and lifted it to his lips, the quick-firing synapses in his mind that fueled the quick associations he had become known for conjured lines from a text on Newton’s third law of motion: _In nature, for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction; consequently, forces always occur in pairs, and one body cannot exert force on another body without experiencing a force itself._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be Hannigram-ing! Just not yet.

At the end of their meal, Will asked, “Would it be considered rude if I left you the dishes?”

“You’re my guest. You bear no obligation to clean up my mess.”

Will smiled slightly at the phrasing.

“Has Uncle Jack come calling?” Hannibal inquired with a touch of disdain.

“Better-- Freddie Lounds. She’s used her journalistic chops to score an interview with the subject of her newest book," Will answered, clenching his teeth at the idea of seeing his mugshot in dramatic grayscale on the cover of a Freddie Lounds book.

“She is tenacious,” Hannibal agreed. “I look forward to receiving an invitation of my own.”

The shine in Hannibal’s eyes as he spoke suggested the invitation would not be declined. 

“Should I expect you this evening, Will?’

“I may be late. Jack hasn't called yet, but I don’t expect to end the day without being summoned.”

“Take your time. Enjoy the day. There will never be another like it.”

The thought made Will’s breath catch in his chest before he could stop it. _Randall Tier’s jaw in his hands. Man made new._ He forced himself to exhale slowly to avoid letting Hannibal see the impact of his words.

“Goodbye, Hannibal.”

“Goodbye, Will.”

Will controlled the speed of his steps as he left Hannibal’s home and cursed himself for agreeing to come later. The encroaching exhaustion would only further weaken Will’s ability to control his reactions. He couldn’t afford to start looking like a caged animal now; cages often preceded a slaughter. 

Will arrived at Freddie’s apartment and felt his face set into the mask he had been carefully crafting during the past weeks-- the mask of a man driven to murder by the mechanations of another. _Who was driving you last night? _asked the voice in his mind that he had started to recognize as his own.__

__When Freddie opened the door, she did an excellent job pretending she was not surprised to see Will Graham._ _

__“You’ve made the right decision,” she said with forced compassion as she let Will in._ _

__Will wondered if Hannibal or Freddie was more smug. Freddie, at least, was straight to business. He wandered to Freddie’s desk and scanned the articles pinned to the wall behind her laptop._ _

__“I raised the ante on my publishing deal. There's been movie interest. Hollywood is a fine place for the obnoxious and wealthy.”_ _

__“You're not wealthy, Freddie,” Will answered, looking back at her._ _

__“Oh, I will be. No, I'm a pariah among journalists because I took a different faith. But I'm putting that faith in you.”_ _

__Will thought fleetingly of church roofs collapsing on choirs. Freddie reached for the recorder on the coffee table in front of her and pressed “Record” without hesitation._ _

__“Let's talk about the Chesapeake Ripper. Frederick Chilton. Who knew?”_ _

__“Who knew,” Will echoed, continuing his slow circle around the room._ _

__“No one did. Nobody would. Not even you. You were so certain the Chesapeake Ripper was Hannibal Lecter, you tried to kill him.”_ _

__Freddie tilted her head, feigning personal interest._ _

__“You neglected to say ‘allegedly,’” Will said without any trace of offense._ _

__“No, I didn't,” Freddie corrected. “Dr. Lecter's your psychiatrist again. What's up with that?”_ _

__Will made his way toward the couch sitting perpendicular to Freddie’s. He wondered how many lives she had leisurely ruined from the comfort of that couch._ _

__“I was wrong about him. That's what's up with that.”_ _

__“Maybe you were. Maybe you weren't.”_ _

__“Dr. Chilton was the Chesapeake Ripper,” Will affirmed without conviction._ _

__“The Chesapeake Ripper had surgical skills Dr. Chilton did not.”_ _

__“They have the same profile.” Will could not tell if he was irritated by Freddie Lounds in this moment or if he enjoyed forcing her to drag out the information he would have been all too happy to provide only a few short months earlier._ _

__“Except Dr. Chilton was a woeful surgeon. Dangerous, even. I've been chatting with his old medical school chums. They say he fled to psychiatry to avoid embarrassment.”_ _

__Will didn’t attempt to muster an expression of surprise at the revelation. Will finally sat._ _

__“My story with the Chesapeake Ripper already has an ending, Freddie.”_ _

__The woman leaned forward over her knees and clasped her hands together in what Will identified as the posture of terribly concerned interviewers everywhere._ _

__“Mine doesn't,” she said softly. “Do you really think Dr. Chilton killed Abigail Hobbs?”_ _

__Will should have expected this ploy, but Abigail’s name still shook his indifferent facade for a moment._ _

__She continued, “I don't. Even if I let this story go, I'll never let that go.”_ _

__It was laughable. What was Abigail to Freddie? A lost book deal. One less chance at fame._ _

__“Trust me, Freddie. Neither will I.”_ _

__Will sat silently for a moment, then rose and left the apartment without speaking. He didn’t make it to his car before his phone vibrated with a message from Jack._ _

__Inside the BAU morgue, Jack, Price, Zeller, and Alana Bloom stood in a semicircle around a table. Randall Tier’s eyes stared blankly into space. The four looked at Will as he entered. Alana, never one for poker faces, evaluated Will; whatever she searched for, she failed to find._ _

__“Will,” Jack nodded. “You remember Mr. Tier.”_ _

__Will shifted his gaze from the stitched hides of Tier’s legs to Jack but made no other move._ _

__“What do we know?” Will asked._ _

__Jack looked at Price and Zeller expectantly._ _

__“Not as much as we’d like,” Zeller admitted._ _

__Price started, “With almost no blood or internal organs--”_ _

__“--and barely any external ones--” Price side-eyed Zeller at the interjection._ _

__“Determining a cause of death is challenging. Trauma is a safe bet, but there’s not much else. The level of abrasion and state the body was found in suggest struggle, of course, but you probably could have deduced that yourself.”_ _

__“Significant struggle,” Zeller needlessly added._ _

__“What _do_ we know, then?” Jack asked, frustration mounting._ _

__“The presence of subconjunctival hemorrhage can occur with strangulation, but the absence of petechiae point toward another cause of death,” Zeller responded._ _

__“In other words, he probably wasn’t strangled,” Price summarized._ _

__“So, we know how he didn’t die,” Jack concluded._ _

__Price and Zeller shot each other a look, and Price added with a shrug, “Tox reports say he also wasn’t poisoned.”_ _

__A moment passed with Jack standing, arms crossed, looking at Tier as though waiting for him to speak._ _

__“We’ll figure out more if we get additional...pieces,” Zeller explained apologetically. “We basically have half a head and person pants. There aren’t a lot of clues.”_ _

__“And whoever skinned him did a good job of cleaning up after himself. No fibers, hairs…,” Price trailed off._ _

__Will felt a knot he hadn’t known was there release in his chest._ _

__“Will, what do you think?” Alana asked._ _

__“I see nothing to contradict my initial profile.” Will thought it safer to use fewer words. He doubted most people would find his silence anything other than normal._ _

__“The fledgling killer who feels no guilt?” Jack asked, one eyebrow raised._ _

__Will nodded, looking at no one but Randall Tier._ _

__“He might have experience hunting or in taxidermy. It would be difficult to accomplish this if you had never worked with hides before. Lives alone or has access to a space where he can create without being disturbed.” Will would give them nothing else._ _

__Jack exhaled audibly._ _

__“Dr. Bloom, how would this present?”_ _

__“It’s impossible to say. In similar cases, we typically find the killer is a male with a history of violence. A mood disorder is not unlikely. Any further speculation would be unfounded, Jack. Even those are best guesses.”_ _

__Jack turned and walked toward the doorway. He stopped just before exiting and looked over his shoulder._ _

__“Will, I’d like to see you in my office.”_ _

__Alana now looked at Will with open concern._ _

__Will followed Jack Crawford to his office, staying a few paces behind the man. Jack ushered Will in and closed the door too loudly; he walked to the chair behind his desk without glancing at Will. His shoulders were back and his jaw set. Will could feel anger rolling off of him in waves and did his best to deflect the powerful emotions. Jack stared at him, unwavering._ _

__“I respect you too much to mince words. I need to know if we’re on the same team, Will.”_ _

__“Nobody wants to see Hannibal Lecter in a jail cell more than I do.” Fleetingly, Will pictured Hannibal in his own cell at the BSHCI and found he took no delight in the image. He had enjoyed the thought of beating him to death much more._ _

__“I want to believe that, but not only have we made no progress, you killed a man then mutilated his corpse. I'm out on a limb, and that limb is going to break!” Jack stated as his volume rose to just below a shout. He closed his eyes briefly and drummed his fingers once on his desk, collecting himself._ _

__“He hasn’t given me anything actionable, Jack. He speaks in...vagaries and metaphors.”_ _

__“Kate Prurnell will need more than vagaries,” Jack snapped._ _

__“It’s only a matter of time before he chooses another target for me. When he does, I’ll make sure it’s him holding the knife. I’ll arrest him, and you’ll have two witnesses,” Will spoke coolly, sounding like he believed his own words._ _

__“This is a dangerous game. If we want to win, you can’t keep things from me, Will. Lecter will walk again if you allow empathy to confuse what you want with what Lecter wants.”_ _

__“Hannibal delights in orchestrating artful chaos. Randall Tier’s body alone wasn’t sufficient bait. It had to be elevated.”_ _

__Jack’s shoulders relaxed slightly, and he reclined deeper in his seat now._ _

__“The next time you want to make your own lures, give me the courtesy of a call first.”_ _

__Will nodded and found himself feeling the tiniest bit contrite. Jack Crawford looked weary, and Will knew he had caused some part of that._ _

__“I can do this.”_ _

__“I hope so, Will. If you can’t, we’ll both be behind bars while Hannibal Lecter hosts dinner parties.”_ _

__The image caused white hot fury to flush through Will._ _

__“I’ll be in touch again soon,” Jack said as a dismissal._ _

__Will left still flushed with anger and avoided meeting anyone’s eye on his way out of the building. He found Alana Bloom waiting at his car._ _

__“Alana.”_ _

__“Will…,” she trailed off._ _

__The two stood in silence, looking anywhere but at one another._ _

__“If you’re going to stop me from leaving, I would have thought you’d decide what you wanted to say first.”_ _

__To her credit, Alana did not look hurt._ _

__“I did, but it doesn't seem right anymore.” Alana’s forthrightness was a touch disarming._ _

__“Try it anyway.”_ _

__“After Matthew Brown, Hannibal didn’t think I should be angry with you. I couldn't understand why. He said you tried to have him killed to protect me. I don’t know if he was right, but I can at least see how different the...situation...was from the Ripper murders. I’m sorry I thought you were capable of doing that.”_ _

__“Alana,” Will said flatly, “you have no idea what I’m capable of.” Her eyes widened. “You’re sorry you thought I was the Chesapeake Ripper, but you’re not sorry you didn’t believe me.”_ _

__“Frederick Chilton is the Chesapeake Ripper.”_ _

__Will laughed humorlessly and looked into dusky distance beyond Alana. He felt them going in circles already._ _

__“You’ll never see it,” Will said, half to himself._ _

__“I’m worried about you, Will.”_ _

__“Convenient timing.”_ _

__“You were sick. Nobody knew what that might make you do. I worried then, too.”_ _

__“I don’t need your worry, Alana. I have more than enough help,” Will spit the last word out as though it might burn his mouth. Alana looked saddened but not stung by his words. Will was tiring of this conversation._ _

__“If Hannibal is the Chesapeake Ripper, why have you asked him to be your therapist?”_ _

__Will could tell by the color rising in her cheeks that Alana’s heart was beating faster, but she remained locked on him. He got his keys out of his pocket and began to unlock his door, Alana moving out of his way wordlessly._ _

__“But Alana,” Will said with affected sincerity, “Frederick Chilton is the Chesapeake Ripper.” This was the second time today he had felt forced to say those words._ _

__“I don’t see how your relationship with Hannibal could ever be healthy. With your shared history, he shouldn’t treat you. You should get someone better suited for your needs.”_ _

__“Hannibal’s good enough for you.” It was a low blow, and for a moment, Will thought Alana was going to slap him for it. He wouldn’t have held it against her._ _

__Alana took the high road._ _

__“This will only end in disaster for both of you.”_ _

__Will opened the car door. He wanted to escape as much as he wanted to unleash his resentment._ _

__“Then maybe it would be better if you stayed far away from both of us,” Will said as he got into his car._ _

__Alana exhaled harshly, a cloud of mist emerging in the cold air._ _

__“You’re hurt and lashing out. There’s nothing I can say except I’m sorry,” she tried again, emotion finally creeping into her voice. “If you want me to stay away from you, I will, but I won’t stop seeing Hannibal because it’s what you’d prefer.”_ _

__Will closed his door and started his car. Alana had begun to walk away when Will rolled down his window and spoke loudly enough to cause her to turn back toward him._ _

__“What do you think Hannibal would do if I told him it’s what I’d _prefer_?”_ _

__Alana looked surprised for the first time in the conversation._ _

__“Did you suddenly find your evening open, Alana?”_ _

__Will rolled up his window and left Alana staring after him, cheeks reddened, digesting his words._ _

__Will drove to Hannibal’s office. He had gone in late that afternoon and should have been finishing with his last patient. Margot Verger exited the building as Will was entering._ _

__“Will Graham,” she greeted warmly._ _

__“Margot,” he returned, a small, genuine smile forming. “Did you come to share the unfortunate news of your brother’s passing?”_ _

__Margot smiled back._ _

__“Sadly, no. I think I have found a new inspiration, though. Maybe therapy isn’t a complete waste of money.”_ _

__“Is the Verger dynasty falling on hard times?”_ _

__Margot shook her head and replied, “As long as people eat meat, the Vergers have nothing to fear but each other.” She glanced at Will appraisingly, very quickly assessing him head to toe. He felt the slightest unease, but she spoke before it turned to discomfort, “Our therapist seemed very much alive today. Excessively so. You don’t seem like a quitter.”_ _

__“I’m not. Maybe we should agree that you handle your carnage, and I handle mine. Safer for all parties.”_ _

__Margot’s eyebrows quirked upward and she held the door open for Will to enter. As he passed her, she loudly whispered, “Entanglement can be terribly stimulating.”_ _

__A final blast of cold air hit Will as the door closed. He felt strangely unnerved and warm in spite of the chill._ _

__Will knocked on the office door, and Hannibal answered with a small smile. He stepped aside to let Will enter. Will walked the perimeter of the office, idly examining objects. He didn’t want to sit yet. Hannibal’s eyes followed him._ _

__“You seem anxious, Will.”_ _

__“I certainly have no reason to be.” Hannibal sat at his desk chair and waited for Will to speak again. “I ran into Margot Verger as I was leaving.”_ _

__“I didn’t realize you knew Margot,” Hannibal sounded casual, but Will knew he was intrigued by this fact._ _

__“We met here once. She recognized me as the guy who didn’t kill all of those people.”_ _

__“Your favorite moniker, I’m certain.”_ _

__Will half-smiled at that, though he knew he shouldn’t._ _

__“My fame is another part of my life you can take credit for,” Will replied without venom. “She came to my house one night last week. Apparently, I’m very easy to find now. Thank you for that, as well.”_ _

__Will watched Hannibal in his peripheral vision as he said this. He caught the deep inhale that flared Hannibal’s nostrils ever so slightly. Will didn’t intend on putting Margot on Hannibal’s menu, but he had sensed something off in her demeanor that he thought might be attributed to Hannibal already inserting himself into her life._ _

__“What was the impetus for her visit?”_ _

__“She just wanted to talk. She thought we might have similar problems-- same therapist and all. She wasn’t entirely wrong.”_ _

__“Her problems are extremely narrow in their scope.”_ _

___Mason_ _ _

__“And mine aren’t?” Will asked, more cheeky than vitriolic._ _

__“Your most pressing problem is the pain your transformation causes you. There’s nothing easy about that.”_ _

__Will worked his way around the room to the desk. He chose to not take Hannibal's bait tonight. He finally sat in the seat across the desk from Hannibal's, and Hannibal seemed to relax in the familiar scene._ _

__“What do you think causes you to take such an interest in Margot?”_ _

__“I wouldn’t say I’m interested. She’s easy for me to like. I didn’t have to guess what she was thinking, and she didn’t want my sympathy or help. It felt normal. At least, I think that’s what normal is.”_ _

__“We are often drawn to those who differ from us. We can learn a great deal about our own principles from discerning what we find attractive in others.” Hannibal looked like he was considering something before speaking it. “Margot is in an unfortunate position. Her gender caused her to be undervalued by her father and now abused by her brother.”_ _

__“Male heir. She told me her predicament. Go and risk poverty or stay and be Mason's punching bag.”_ _

__Hannibal licked his bottom lip thoughtfully. He turned to his cabinet and retrieved a bottle of Scotch. He poured a finger each into two glasses and handed one to Will._ _

__“There are always paths to success if one is willing to make sacrifices.”_ _

__“Are you feeling especially cryptic this evening, Dr. Lecter?”_ _

__The sides of Hannibal’s mouth curled upward. "And you seem to be feeling especially persistent." He paused, then continued, “Ethics committees typically disapprove of sharing information between patients.”_ _

__Will raised both eyebrows in a teasing challenge._ _

__“Well, I wouldn’t want to be responsible for causing you to act unethically.”_ _

__Hannibal nodded at that point, conceding._ _

__“The desire to leave a legacy is one of the most powerful forces acting upon us throughout our lives. Mason Verger plans on his father’s empire compensating for his own deficiencies. Margot Verger must create her own legacy. If she is successful, she frees herself without losing the luxury to which she has grown accustomed.”_ _

__“What is success for Margot?” Will asked, already anticipating the answer._ _

__“Mason need not be the last Verger heir.”_ _

__“Margot told me she was attracted to women. Mason will find out if she sees a doctor.”_ _

__“I believe Margot will seek more organic means,” Hannibal said with no lack of amusement at Will’s surprise. “Perhaps, she intends for you to assist in her endeavor.”_ _

__Will opened and closed his mouth once without emitting sound. He swallowed hard._ _

__“I think my life is complicated enough without adding fatherhood.”_ _

__“When men become fathers, they undergo biochemical changes that affect the way they think. A similar process occurs when men become killers.”_ _

__“God’s sense of irony is exquisite,” Will responded and took a sip of the Scotch. He looked at the amber liquid, rotating the tumbler between his hands. “Have you ever been a father?” Will didn’t know if he actually expected an answer._ _

__“I was to my sister. She wasn't my child, but she was my charge,” Hannibal said in a soft voice. His distant eyes suggested his mind was somewhere far away and long lost. “Abigail reminded me so much of her.”_ _

__“I still dream about Abigail. I dream I'm teaching her how to fish.” Will smiled bitterly, feeling nostalgia for memories that had never been made._ _

__The silence expanded tangibly between them._ _

__“Occasionally, on purpose, I drop a teacup to shatter on the floor. I'm not satisfied when it doesn't gather itself up again. Someday, perhaps, the teacup will come together.”_ _

__“Maybe nature knew better than to allow either of us to become fathers.” The salt of suppressed sobs drained down Will’s throat. Hannibal loved Abigail, and he killed her. Will loved Abigail, and he let her die._ _

__Hannibal frowned, and Will wondered if the glassiness of his eyes came from his own unspilled tears. Neither dared move for many minutes._ _

__That night, Will returned home far later than expected. He was emotionally drained and had almost fallen asleep at the wheel on the long drive from Baltimore. A lonely bottle of whiskey sat on his doorstep. Attached was a note:  
__

__

__Sorry I missed you. Try, try again. --MV_ _

____Will put the bottle unopened in a cabinet and dreamt of streams._ _ _ _


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The length of this one really got away from me. I appreciate so, so much the people who are reading and the comments. I think this work will end up being ten chapters. The romance angle will start being more apparent next chapter; they're just slow burn kinda guys.

For four full days, the world left Will Graham alone. On the fifth day, Freddie Lounds came to Wolf Trap. 

The dogs alerted Will as soon as her Jeep turned onto Will’s snowy driveway. He listened to her boots treading across his porch, pausing at the windows. He remained out of sight as Freddie knocked and then tugged on the locked screen door, a tinny rattle giving her away even though Will could not physically see Freddie. He heard her walk off the porch, and Will went to his front window, standing just to the side of the blinds. He was in no mood for Freddie’s prying, and her invasion of his sacred space did nothing to improve this. The idea that had he neglected to lock his door she would have walked into his house disgusted Will. He pictured her snapping photos of his dogs and his belongings, looking for a clue as to what made him tick. 

When Freddie turned away from her vehicle and began walking toward the barn, Will’s irritation gave way to something else. He knew Freddie was not above picking a lock on an outbuilding. Will pulled on his coat and swiftly exited; if he caught her in time, he could avoid a scene. He would make her call Jack, though he would probably have to take her phone from her until Jack arrived so that she didn’t try to call anyone or send the photos she was undoubtedly snapping to her email. Jack would be frustrated, but having Freddie Lounds muzzled for the duration of the investigation could be worth the trouble. The barn door was slightly ajar, and Will knew Freddie’s demanding hands would make quick work of the lock on his freezer. 

Will slipped through the open door, careful to remain silent. From behind a clouded plastic sheet, Will observed Freddy’s horror as she unwrapped Randall Tier’s jaw; the horror turned to terror when she slammed the freezer lid shut and saw Will standing between her and the only means of egress. As she fumbled through her bag, Will closed the barn door, darkening the space considerably. Freddie produced a gun and aimed it at Will in shaky hands. Her stance exposed her inexperience with firearms. _Too determined to go unarmed; too cocky to think she’d ever have to use a weapon._ He kept his voice even, almost soothing.

“Find what you came for, Freddie?”

“Stay away from me,” she gasped. She followed Will’s movement through the plastic sheets with the barrel of her gun. “Get away from the door,” she commanded, mustering as much authority as she could.

“I can’t do that, Freddie,” Will spoke in a gentle voice. He came nearer as he talked to the frightened woman. He extended his hand toward her. “Freddie, this can end very easily. Give me the gun.”

Will saw the panic flare in her eyes before she squeezed the trigger, and he rolled over a table, to create a barrier between them. Once she had shot, Freddie darted toward the door. Will caught her from behind and wrapped his hand firmly around the wrist of the hand holding the gun. He could feel her trying to squeeze the trigger again even within his grasp. He had to get the gun out of her hand. He slammed her bony limb repeatedly against the shelf near the barn entrance and held the rest of her body stationary with his free hand and shoulder. The gun dropped, and Will kicked it away. He felt her reaching into her coat and wrapped his arms around her from behind in a crushing hold. A can of pepper spray tumbled to the ground. He reached one arm around her neck, her chin caught above his elbow. He pulled the arm around her neck tighter, constricting her breathing. The other arm squeezed against her ribs. 

Will had meant to subdue Freddie, maybe even knock her unconscious, to prevent the situation from escalating, but as her angry body thrashed wildly, a calm clarity fell over Will. His mind quieted, and his muscles felt alight with the adrenaline that had begun flowing as soon as Freddie took the first step toward his barn. She kicked her legs violently, boots thudding against his calves; Will did not feel it. He only felt the crack of her ribs and the eventual give of her throat under his arm. When she stopped struggling, Will brought them both to the ground and released the arm wrapped around her midsection to use the freed limb as leverage for the arm still snaked around Freddie’s neck. He stayed in this position for many minutes, long after Freddie’s body went slack and Will ceased to feel her pulse. He finally dropped her gently to the floor. Her face stared up at him, eyes red with busted capillaries and mouth frozen open in a final gasp. 

Will marveled at the ease with which Freddie Lounds’ life had been taken. A fly buzzing incessantly through crime scenes and polluting everything it touched, now swatted down in a single bat. The warmth and electricity Will felt within his body was short-lived. It was broad daylight, and he had only a few hours to safely make Freddie disappear. He thought darkly that Freddie would have been glad to know her ability to annoy Will transcended death. He rolled Freddie in a tarp and moved her wrapped body to the edge of the barn. She was far from hidden, but he would attend to her later.

Will covered Freddie’s driver’s seat with a piece of plastic sheeting cut down to size with a box cutter. He put her phone and purse in the car with him, slipped a knit cap on over his head, took out his own phone battery, and drove. He remembered being called to consult on a murder where the body had been left in a vehicle at an abandoned strip mall in a dying suburb outside of Washington. Will recalled his particular disgust at the face the car had had its rims and hood ornament stolen as a body rotted inside. The lack of cameras and willing witnesses had been a frustration then, but now they seemed like a blessing, though from whose god he did not know.

Will parked the vehicle on a side street near where the lot he remembered. He left Freddie’s purse visible in the footwell of the passenger’s seat and tucked her keys into the viser; with any luck, the Jeep would disappear entirely. He took her phone with him but removed the battery and SIM card; he rolled up the thin plastic cover so that he could tuck it inside his already-bulky winter coat. Will was out of the vehicle and heading toward a main street in less than a minute. He dropped the phone battery behind him as he walked quickly through a dead alleyway. The businesses near where he had parked were shuttered, which meant no security cameras to catch a glimpse of a red Jeep or of Will’s face. Still, he kept his head down, face as buried as possible between his cap and scarf. 

Will recalled living in dead neighborhoods like this one in Louisiana; there were countless small pockets that had been decimated by a single factory closing its doors or by opioids. It was a cold comfort. Will did not spot another person until he made it to a main street. Very few people passed Will as he walked toward a residential neighborhood; he saw mostly older folks bundled up and walking hurriedly from their parked cars to buildings or from one building to the next. As Will walked over a grate in the sidewalk, he let Freddie’s SIM card tumble between the slots and into the black below. 

Will walked over a mile through a neighborhood and to another small strip of businesses around before he found an ancient payphone and could call a taxi. He wiped the phone off after he used it, and he paid the taxi driver with cash. He had the driver drop him off at the end of the driveway of a home two miles from his own; he waited until the driver left, then walked the rest of the way. He stuck his battery back in his phone and turned it on. 

Seeing his home once again unmarred by Freddie’s vehicle stoked the righteousness he tried so hard to suppress. She invaded his space; she invaded his life. Now, she would never do that again to Will or anyone else. He heard his dogs bark joyfully when they recognized him; he let them loose to stretch and relieve themselves. As he watched them dart off in a loose pack, yipping and breaking into playful skirmishes, peace returned to Will’s world for a few moments.

Will hadn’t seen or spoken to Hannibal since the night he encountered Margot leaving the office. Will’s formal appointment time was still scheduled for tomorrow evening, but he had no outlet for the power humming through him with each heartbeat. He started to dial Hannibal’s office number-- one of the few he knew by memory-- but stopped and composed a quick text message instead. 

_Are you available this evening?_

Will corralled the dogs back into the house and refilled their water bowls. Soon, his phone lit up with a message. 

_I can be._

Will sighed. He didn’t know why texting made him feel nervous when he had so often unleashed barbs directly at Hannibal’s face. Will had learned from years of awkward interactions that when in doubt, the fewer words, the less chance of miscommunication.

_Come to Wolf Trap?_

Will hadn’t even navigated away from the text screen when the reply came.

_I’ll be there at 7._

Will would be ready. 

He went to the barn, dressed himself in as much protective clothing as he could, and went to work on Freddie Lounds.

Five minutes until seven, Hannibal’s Bentley illuminated Will’s driveway. Seeing a person they knew, the dogs gathered near the door, vying to be the first recognized. Will opened the door for Hannibal and gave the gang their chance to greet him. To his credit, Hannibal remembered all of their names and came with a small bag of treats. Will ordered the dogs away when they had sufficiently expressed their adoration for the visitor and his snacks.

“Good evening, Will.” Hannibal looked unreasonably satisfied to be standing in a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere.

“Thanks for driving out,” Will answered. He didn’t want to appear too eager, but he was still in a heady frame of mind. “I’ve started a new project.”

Hannibal raised his eyebrows minutely, waiting for Will to continue. 

“It’s in the barn.”

Will could see the wheels suddenly start spinning in Hannibal’s head as his mind cycled through endless scenarios. Hannibal cocked his head slightly to the side.

“Lead the way.”

He followed Will outside and to the barn. Inside, the cleansed and bare body of Freddy Lounds lay on a tarp-covered table. Will watched Hannibal take in the full scene: The thick plastic draped from the rafters, the tarps covering the ground and tables, the locked freezer, the hanging remains, and the assortment of tools laid carefully at Freddie’s side. Hannibal approached the body and glanced over her.

“Strangulation?”

“Constriction,” Will responded.

One side of Hannibal’s mouth quirked upward. 

“You have accomplished quite a lot since we last met.”

“Idle hands are the devil’s playground.” Will smiled sardonically.

“Make no mistake, Will, I am terribly glad to be here, but I must ask what role you would like me to play in this undertaking. Ms. Lounds is yours, just as Randall Tier was. I don’t want to overstep my bounds.”

Will came to stand next to Hannibal at the side of the table near Freddie’s head. 

“Butchering a human is not as similar to field dressing a buck as I’d like. I thought we might have tomorrow’s session over dinner.”

Will heard Hannibal’s breath catch. He dipped his head slightly and licked his lips. His eyes darkened and focused on the body in front of them. In another person, the expression might be something akin to lust, but the streak of savage anticipation defied that label. The power Will had felt with his arm around Freddie’s neck returned, infusing him with heat, and he kept his gaze fixed on Hannibal. 

Hannibal picked up a slim knife and took a step toward the table. Will reached out his hand and put it over Hannibal’s, stopping his movement. Their eyes met, and Will said, “Tell me how to do it.”

Will could hear Hannibal’s shallow breathing. He turned the knife and pointed the handle to Will, who carefully accepted it. 

Once Hannibal began giving direction, his demeanor and tone reverted to a version of himself that Will imagined was the man who mentored Johns Hopkins students through their residencies. He was assertive and clear; he corrected quickly but praised freely. By the time they had finished, Freddie Lounds was flayed open, little more than skin, bones, and undesirable organs. Packages of flesh wrapped in butcher paper surrounded her. Her head was intact; Will had rejected the idea of using any part of it. 

The two men stood side-by-side admiring their work. The hours Will spent carving Freddie had been the fastest of his life, and he was surprised to find it was already after 10 P.M. Hannibal caught him checking the clock and started straightening the area to the extent that it could be straightened without intensive cleaning. 

“Will, where do you intend to keep your spoils? I assume Randall is still inhabiting your freezer.”

They both glanced at the small chest, and Will sighed. 

“I’ll make it work.”

Hannibal looked like he was considering something.

“I’m sure you will, but I would be more than happy to lend space. It’s the least repayment I can offer you for generously providing the meat for tomorrow’s menu.”

Will wanted to say no, but it was the best solution. He nodded.

“Thank you, Hannibal.”

“My pleasure, Will.” Hannibal gave a small but painfully authentic smile.

They put the packages into a large cooler of Will’s and topped them with ice. As Will watched the car disappear into the night, he thought of Hannibal Lecter driving over an hour with a trunk full of human flesh. _Not any human,_ Will reminded himself, _Freddie Lounds._ Her brand of reckless self-service had led to people dying. He told himself that she did not deserve his sympathy.

Will worked late into the night completing the task of erasing any trace of Freddie Lounds from his home. When he went to bed in the early morning hours, he drew the curtains tightly closed; he could not recall his dreams when he eventually awoke.

Before Will left for the therapy session by way of dinner, Hannibal called and told him once more that Will was welcome to make use of Hannibal’s surplus freezer storage. Will understood Hannibal’s offer as more of a suggestion and brought Randall Tier’s remains with him to Baltimore. If Freddie Lounds had so easily broken into Will’s barn, he needed to rethink his strategy. Living in a reasonably remote area was not sufficient protection.

Hannibal greeted Will in a crisp white shirt and apron and black slacks. Will imagined a suit jacket and garish tie had at some point been discarded between the end of Hannibal’s work day and now. Will always felt like he was seeing something forbidden when Hannibal dressed down after work to facilitate cooking.

“Did you decide to take me up on my offer?” Hannibal asked.

Will held up two insulated bags in response. He hung up his coat and scarf and took the bags into the kitchen. Hannibal started to reach out to take the bags from Will’s grasp, seemed to think better of it, and stopped. 

“Perhaps you would like to see your guests’ quarters?”

The phrasing was flippant, but Hannibal shrewdly gauged Will’s reaction. Will’s eyes widened and mouth slightly opened.

“Yes.”

Hannibal led Will to his basement. In spite of his best efforts, Will’s heartbeat increased as they descended the darkened staircase. Will had never been here before; he doubted anybody but Hannibal himself had exited intact. Hannibal flipped the switch and cold light flooded the gray space. Will wanted to wander and absorb what the basement offered, but he sensed that he was in a sanctified space and should allow his host to set the pace. Will felt Hannibal studying him as they walked through hanging plastic and past a stainless steel table. Will allowed his gaze to hungrily examine every inch of the room. He caught sight of a large sort of table saw, the kind a professional butcher might use, and for just a moment, the disapproving visage of Beverly Katz stood beside him. Hannibal had lived in this house for years, and in spite of his inarguably thorough upkeep, an FBI forensics team would collect untold treasures to present to Jack Crawford. Will expected that wherever Hannibal was leading him would only cement that idea.

They reached an oversized steel door that was padlocked. Hannibal unlocked it and opened the door for Will to enter the walk-in freezer. The shelves were impossibly tidy. Vacuum-packed meat with ambiguous labeling lined the shelves of one wall, though there wasn’t nearly as much as he had guessed before the door opened. Another wall of shelves held multiple sealed glass containers, most of which looked like they contained various types of liquids-- stocks, maybe-- and preserved food items; these were plainly labeled. The third wall was empty save for Freddie Lounds’ contributions. 

A portrait of Price and Zeller cataloguing the contents while Jack commanded from the center of the shrouded room behind them began to form behind Will’s eyes. Hannibal took the bags from Will’s hands and crouched to open them. 

“There’s a jaw bone,” Will said absently, pulling himself from the crime scene of his imagination. Hannibal looked up with lifted eyebrows. “I wasn’t sure what to do with it.”

Hannibal’s face twisted into an unreadable expression at that, but it was closer to affection than distaste. He put Will’s donations in the allocated space, took a wooden crate from the shelf with the preserved items, and placed Randall’s jaw within it. 

“If you don’t mind, Will, I believe it might be better to dispose of this.”

Will didn’t argue, and they left the freezer, Hannibal relocking it behind them. Hannibal had relaxed at his side. He no longer studied Will but instead let his own gaze follow Will’s around the room, trying to see it through Will’s own fresh eyes, perhaps. The first touches of guilt since before Randall Tier’s death had started reaching out toward Will; the icy grasp felt like Beverly Katz’s. Yet, simultaneously, his mind brought forth images of him and the other man working side-by-side under the yellow light of Will’s barn, Hannibal’s even voice directing Will’s cuts when Will stumbled. He wanted to see Hannibal’s blood flow onto the stainless steel table; he wanted Hannibal to hold his wrist as he cut into a body. Both realities existed equally. 

Hannibal guided them back upstairs into the normalcy of the world above. _Ascending from Hades,_ Will thought somewhat dramatically. Hannibal reached into his refrigerator and took out a single, unfrozen package of meat wrapped in Will’s butcher paper. 

“Fresh is best,” he intoned and surveyed the now complete set of ingredients in front of him.

“I’d like to help,” Will finally said, mesmerized by how the pound of Freddie’s flesh looked on Hannibal’s cutting board. 

“You can sous chef,” Hannibal offered, now looking at Will with unhidden warmth. He handed him a large, well-sharpened knife. Will caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of the expert blade, and he was relieved to recognize himself.

Hannibal gave directions that Will followed with unordinary obedience; when Hannibal wasn’t directing Will, he sometimes narrated what he was doing with the meat, though Will didn’t know whose benefit that was for. When everything was done, Hannibal fussily plated the meal and brought it to the dining room while Will set the table and poured two glasses of a preselected wine. 

Will’s stomach audibly rumbled as the plates were laid on the dining table. Hannibal looked amused but said, “You must do a better job of feeding yourself regularly, Will.”

“I’m attempting to,” Will pointedly replied.

“Then I rescind my critique.”

“This looks excellent,” Will complimented.

“I had excellent assistance.”

The two glanced at one another and began settling in at the table, the mood relaxing. In spite of his hunger, Will found himself carving the meat on his plate in languorous strokes and holding each bite in his mouth to commit the taste to memory. He found the idea of eating human flesh neither particularly enticing nor disturbing, but the prospect of killing, butchering, and cooking his own meat had always appealed to Will’s independent nature. The memory of killing this particular mammal added to that appeal, a realization that Will did not allow to fully develop in his thoughts. If he thought too hard about it now, Hannibal would see the guilt written plainly on his face. They didn’t speak again until their plates were empty. Hannibal broke the silence.

“I’ve received an invitation from Mason Verger to visit him at Muskrat Farm. It was hand delivered by a courier.”

Will didn’t have to ask if Hannibal planned on accepting the invitation; it would be incredibly rude not to. Plus, Hannibal’s curiosity would never allow him to decline. 

“What does the infamous Mr. Verger want?”

“I don’t entirely know yet. Based on Margot’s description, Mason tends toward the erratic. If pressed, I would suppose he would like to buy my allegiance.”

“A person’s therapist is extremely influential,” Will said, unmoved.

Hannibal caught and summarily ignored the soft jab. He opened his mouth to speak again, but before he had a chance, the tone of the doorbell resonated through the house. Will saw a spark of annoyance in the narrowing of Hannibal’s eyes, telling him Hannibal had not expected any further visitors.

“Pardon me, Will.”

Hannibal’s careful enunciation of the nicety further belied his irritation. 

Will listened to the sound of Hannibal’s footsteps walk down the hall to his entry, and he heard the door open. He could not hear the words or tones, but he did not hear the door close. Intrigued by who would unexpectedly ring Hannibal’s bell at almost 9 P.M. on a weeknight, Will decided to investigate for himself. 

Hannibal’s frame blocked Will’s view, but as he approached, he recognized the voice.

“Alana?”

Hannibal glanced back at Will, then stepped aside. Alana stood on Hannibal’s doorstep, cheeks already reddened with a combination of the cold and her apparent frustration. She looked back and forth between them, then fixed her scowl on Hannibal.

“Would you like to come inside, Alana?” Hannibal asked emotionlessly and swept his hand toward the interior of his home.

It was clear from Alana’s face that nothing Hannibal said or did was going to placate her this evening, but she walked inside anyway. She did not remove her coat, scarf, or knit hat. Hannibal gave Alana a wide berth as he walked closer to Will. It would be easier for Alana to scold them if she didn’t have to divide her wrath.

“Have I interrupted something?”

“We’ve just finished dinner. Your timing is impeccable.”

Alana looked unamused.

“Could I get you a drink, Alana?” Hannibal asked, a gracious host as always.

“I don’t intend to stay. Maybe it’s better that you’re both here. I wanted to give you forewarning. Freddie Lounds came to see me,” she said, looking at Will. He controlled every muscle in an expression of vaguely interested disdain. “She thinks she sees something no one else sees.”

“What’s that?” Will asked.

“That neither of you is the killer she's writing about, but together, you might be.”

“Freddie Lounds must consider you a bland interview subject if she's already resorted to fiction,” Hannibal blithely commented.

“She thinks you’re a paradox. Patient and therapist. Friend and enemy. Two halves of one murderer.”

“Freddie is prone to fabricating melodrama. It’s how she’s built a career. She’s using you.” Will sounded believable to his own ears.

“Possibly,” Alana said, “but regardless of Freddie’s agenda, she has a point. There are reasons therapists don’t befriend their patients. It’s unprofessional, at the very least.”

“Your concern has been noted.”

Alana turned to Hannibal at Will’s stony response. Her eyes implored him to be reasonable.

“Hannibal, the ability to provide sound psychological treatment is predicated on maintaining healthy boundaries. Your relationship has none.”

“Crossing boundaries is different than violating them.”

Alana began to look alarmed by both men’s blunt refusal to acknowledge her appeal. Will understood well the feeling of having your warnings ignored.

“You’re treading on very shaky ethical ground. Freddie is liable to write almost anything, and if you’re not careful, you’ll put yourselves in an indefensible position, especially you, Hannibal. I just don’t want to see either of you hurt, and frankly, I can never tell where you are with one another.” 

“We know where we are with each other. Isn’t that enough?” Will answered, not expecting a response.

Alana sighed, straightened her jacket, and started walking back to the front door. She glanced over her shoulder just before leaving and addressed them in her professorial tone. “I’m sorry for dropping by unexpectedly. Enjoy your evening.”

The door sounded very loud when it closed. Will stared at the space where Alana had been. Freddie Lounds cornering Alana about his resumed sessions with Hannibal was not unexpected, but he was wary of whatever seeds had been planted in Alana. 

Hannibal turned to face Will, unperturbed. 

“Dessert?”

It was ludicrous, which made Will smile.

They ate blackberry-mint sorbet standing at the kitchen island. Will felt vaguely sinful eating so informally in Hannibal’s home.

Hannibal held his spoon in front of him like a hand mirror and said, “Alana holds very strong convictions. She is not unlike Jack Crawford that way.”

“Conviction is what sends soldiers onto battlefields," Will responded with a note of bitterness.

“The same could be said of loyalty.”

Will cast his gaze to the creamy, dark purple ice in his dish. 

“There’s nothing Alana can tell Jack that he doesn’t already know.”

Hannibal meditated on this but did not offer a comment in return.


	6. Chapter 6

“Freddie Lounds has been reported missing.”

Jack Crawford let the words hang in the air. Will, Alana, and Hannibal sat in three seats in front of his desk. 

“She was last seen ten days ago. Another long-term hotel guest reported Freddie almost hit her car when she was backing out. There is no FBI involvement at this point, but considering Ms. Lounds’ most recent investigation involves at least two of the people in this room, I think you should all be aware.”

“Give yourself some credit, Jack-- you and Alana will at least get a footnote.”

Jack’s glare warned Will that now was not the time.

“Have any of you spoken to Freddie recently?”

Will exhaled harshly and answered, “She interviewed me a little over two weeks ago. She wanted to know my thoughts on the identity of the Chesapeake Ripper. I told her the case was closed. She recorded our conversation. Afterward, I came straight here to discuss Randall Tier.”

“And that was the last time you saw her?”

“Yes.” Will didn’t hesitate.

“She came to Quantico to talk to me a week and a half ago. I can look at my planner and give you the exact date. She wanted to interview me. I declined.” Alana paused, then said, “She had some concerns about Will.”

Will looked straight ahead with a clenched jaw.

“What kinds of concerns, Dr. Bloom?” Jack asked.

“She thinks Will is not benefitting from his therapy with Dr. Lecter and that their work together is destructive. She believes Frederick Chilton isn’t the Chesapeake Ripper.”

“Freddie Lounds believes whatever will sell the most books,” Will snapped.

Jack looked back at Alana.

“Did she say why she thought all this?”

“We didn’t speak long.”

A tense moment passed.

“Dr. Lecter, do you have any insights?

Hannibal pondered this question.

“Ms. Lounds is wont to pursue every rabbit trail she detects. This can lead her to rather colorful conclusions. It can also lead her to recklessness. I doubt she reveals her true thoughts to anyone.”

“You think she got wrapped up in something dangerous?”

“I think it should be considered.”

Jack looked like he had entertained this same thought before. Alana kept her mouth shut tightly, but it was clear she disagreed with Hannibal’s suggestion.

“It’s not our problem yet, but if a body is found, you’ll all be called on to make statements. Until then, if Freddie Lounds attempts to contact any of you, I need to know,” Jack commanded.

“Of course,” Hannibal answered on everyone else’s behalf. The three got up to leave. 

“Will, stay.” Jack sounded like he was speaking to his dog.

Will didn’t move to sit back down but planted himself, standing, in the center of the office. The door clicked shut, but Jack did not look up.

“I haven’t heard from you lately, Will.”

“There hasn’t been much to tell you. Has a body been found?”

“No, no bodies. Should we have found one?” Jack asked, now looking at Will.

“There’s been nothing, Jack,” Will stated, as his mind wandered to Hannibal’s basement. Jack immediately looked ready to reply, so he added, “But I think he’s planning something.”

Jack raised his eyebrows, compelling Will to elaborate.

“Mason Verger. His sister, Margot, is one of Hannibal’s patients. There’s an inheritance dispute. I think Hannibal is trying to persuade them to kill one another.”

“Why does he want one of them to die?”

Will laughed mirthlessly. “He’s curious. He also has come to find Mason unforgivably rude.”

“Rude?” Jack echoed, eyebrows raised. “That’s not a motive.”

“For Hannibal, the rude are not human. They’re lesser because of their impropriety, but he elevates them to something greater by cooking and eating them. They’re pigs. Mason is a particularly large pig in Hannibal’s world.”

“We aren’t going to risk a man’s life. If you believe Hannibal is planning to kill Mason Verger, we have to know every detail so we can stop him before he gets too close.”

“But close enough,” Will flatly supplied. 

Jack looked exasperated. “Is there any truth to Alana’s concerns?”

Will gave a single dry chuckle. 

“Is continuing therapy with the man who tried to have me killed destructive? Oh, no, Jack. I’ve made marvelous progress.” 

Jack studied Will’s face with narrowed eyes. Will was surprised to see he didn’t look angry. 

“If catching Hannibal Lecter means you losing yourself, I’m not willing to make that trade.” 

_You already did._

“I’m handling it,” Will half-answered. “Our next session is tomorrow. I’ll have more to tell you after that.” Will left without waiting for Jack to respond. 

Will went directly home. From the moment Freddie Lounds quit breathing in his arms, he foresaw a moment when he would have to look Jack Crawford in the eyes and lie. It hadn’t been difficult; the thought made him sick. He had pulled over once on the way to Wolf Trap to dry heave on the side of the road. He briefly contemplated wandering into the traffic. 

As always, the sight of his dogs was a balm. No matter what occurred in the world outside, his home could be his haven. That thought-- and the earlier conversation-- in mind, Will attacked the task of deconstructing the makeshift morgue in his barn. Neither Randall Tier nor Freddie Lounds would be the reason he spent his life in a cage. 

That evening, Will had a bonfire. To any unexpected passersby, a man and his dogs sat near a moderately-sized flame on a snowy night. For Will, the fire cleansed. Every surface-- even the ones that had been covered during Will’s two butcherings-- was cleaned with bleach. Anything that couldn’t be cleaned was burned. He held a towel up to his mouth as acrid chemical smoke rose from the sheets of plastic; the clothing disappeared much more quietly. He would give the barn a day to dry and air out, and then he would use luminol to check his work. When Will tried to go to bed, he couldn’t stop walking through his own crime scene. How would he catch himself? He got up and began sanitizing the bottom floor of his home-- he couldn’t chance a stray hair or mud mixed with blood being tracked in imperceptibly. By the time Will could rest, he had to leave two windows open, in spite of the cold air, to release the strong burn of bleach. 

In his nightmares, Jack stood in Will’s home and asked him to reveal who killed Freddie Lounds. Jack pulled Will’s eyelids closed and commanded him to see, and Will’s mouth obeyed, telling Jack exactly how he had killed the woman and how peaceful he had felt dropping to the floor with her dead weight in his arms. Only, Freddie wasn’t dead. She was lying on the tarped table in Will’s barn, screaming silently as he and Hannibal dissected her. Will awoke covered in sweat. 

He took the dogs on a long walk that morning. He tossed the sticks they brought him, and he jogged with them in the snow when they worked themselves into a frenzy of excitement. Only once did he have to correct Zoe, who was all of 15 pounds, for nipping at the heels of Jack, who was at least 50 pounds now. When they got back, the dogs collapsed in their beds, happily exhausted. Will showered and changed. He picked a collection of George Saunders stories off of his shelf and stretched out on his bed to read. Gradually, his eyes got heavier, and he gave in to sleep. When he woke up, Winston had curled next to him, and the late winter sky was already close to dark. He hurried to straighten himself up and get out the door to make it to Hannibal’s office on time. Thankfully, traffic was lighter than usual, and he made it a few minutes ahead of time.

Will sat in the waiting area outside Hannibal’s closed door. A few different patients had cycled through the appointment time before his, and he wondered who was occupying Hannibal’s mind now. When the door opened at 7:25, Will was surprised to see a younger man with dirty blonde hair that pointed upward in odd directions-- as though chronically windblown. The man was well-dressed, and his eyes were wide under his glasses. He glanced over at Will, walked past him, and then stopped and turned on his heel. 

“Excuse me,” he spoke in an oddly affected voice that wavered quite a bit in pitch. “Are you a patient of Dr. Lecter’s? It would be rather _odd_ if you weren’t, don’t you think?”

Will found his cadence and unusual emphasis distracting, so he said nothing.

“You look _terribly_ familiar.”

The juxtaposition of the man’s immaculate clothing and bottled volatility drew Will into the conversation.

“I’m the man who didn’t kill all of those people,” came his worn reply.

“Ah, yes! Graham, isn’t it?” Will didn’t correct him, so he continued, “Mr. Graham, you see, therapy isn’t what you’d call my forte; it didn’t quite _stick_ for me. I can’t tell what _flavor_ of loon you are, but there must be a little taste if you’re in a therapist’s office.”

Will held his silence. The man seemed to chafe under it.

“Maybe you could help me with something. Just a question, rattling around my mind. A _family_ issue, really. Has Dr. Lecter _enticed_ you to act against your own self-interest?”

“Dr. Lecter is very talented at transforming an idle craving into a thirst.”

The man looked at Will with an exaggerated furrow in his brow. He resembled a child pretending to be thoughtful. He broke into a single, loud laugh and leaned close to Will to growl, “I _like_ you, Mr. Graham!”

The door to the office opened forcefully. Hannibal cut an especially imposing figure in a black suit. No particular emotion was readable on his face, but his body was rigid.

“Please remember in the future to use the patient’s exit. Good day, Mason.”

Mason’s attention was on Hannibal now, and Will took the opportunity to look him up and down. _Rabid animals have to be put down,_ Will thought. 

“Slipped my mind,” he answered. Mason stood and turned back to exit the room briskly. Before he completely closed the door, he poked his head back in and looked at Will. “By the way, you’ll have to use the chaise.” He mouthed _touchy_ with a cartoonish nod toward Hannibal and then disappeared. 

Will followed Hannibal into the office and went straight to his normal seat. The sight of the chair arms split open by a deep cut genuinely shocked him. He looked up at Hannibal for explanation; the other man stood against his desk in a mockery of casualness. Will saw pure loathing in the tightness of his face and white knuckles.

“Mason is dissatisfied with his sister’s care.”

Will arched his eyebrows up at Hannibal’s bland summary of what had surely been an eventful appointment.

“But this is your session, Will, not Mr. Verger’s,” Hannibal said as he walked around to sit behind his desk. Will came to the chair in front of him, mildly impressed by Hannibal’s ability to violently suppress his own rage. Will knew he would have to bring Mason back up to get information for Jack, but now wasn’t the moment. As if reading his mind, Hannibal said, “You’re quiet today, Will. Has your conversation with Jack Crawford caused you distress?”

Will exhaled audibly and relaxed into the chair. 

“He has reservations about my progress under your care.”

“A reasonable concern. Does he suspect your involvement in the disappearance of Ms. Lounds?”

“Not yet.”

“But he will,” Hannibal supplied.

“He will,” Will confirmed. 

“Have you been sleeping well?”

Will sighed.

“The nightmares have returned?” 

Will nodded but didn’t attempt to describe them. He wasn’t ready to relive the newest incarnation of his psyche.

“Do you think yourself evil, Will?”

Will contemplated the idea; he probably was evil, but was that how he thought of himself? 

“I don’t believe in good or evil anymore. I’ve given up good and evil for behaviorism.”

“Then you can’t say that I’m evil.”

Will considered this, tasted it. “I don’t think modern psychology has a name for what you are, Dr. Lecter.” 

“Unchaining oneself from traditional morality is a gradual process. For some, it takes many years of searching for the lock in the dark; others find they were never shackled at all. Would Jack Crawford believe you evil, Will?”

“Jack trades in justice, not morality.”

“It’s a simpler world. Jack knows his place in it and the place of all those around him. I imagine his sleep is not plagued by nightmares.” Hannibal stared blankly ahead at his bookshelves. Will knew this to indicate he was choosing his next words carefully. “I must admit, I didn’t sleep last night. I was waiting for Agent Crawford to grace me with his presence, but he never came. Lying to Jack must have been very difficult.”

Will envisioned Hannibal sitting in the dark in a plastic suit, a knife on his lap, waiting for Jack to open his door. Will shook his head. “It wasn’t.”

“And thus your nightmares,” Hannibal concluded. “In this moment, you have the opportunity to reject the man you are becoming-- to revert to your previous form. You have rid yourself of Randall Tier and Freddie Lounds. What little remains of them resides in my home. Even if I denied killing them, it would make no difference. If I were arrested, what would two more murders be?”

Will considered these words as Hannibal studied his face. He wondered at Hannibal’s motive-- there was no benefit in accepting blame for Will’s crimes. He couldn’t tell if this was a philosophical exercise or if Hannibal was testing him. 

“Jack would be very relieved to find those particular bodies in your basement. It would mean he wasn’t wrong about me.”

“Jack has never seen you. He never will. Any judgment he has formed is based on what part of yourself you allow him to see.”

Will felt a sting of guilt. Jack had turned to him in good faith. When had Will used that against him?

“If I confessed to Jack Crawford now, do you think he would forgive me?”

Hannibal’s stare fixed on Will’s eyes as he said, “I would forgive you.”

_He knows._ The thought struck Will with the force and electricity of lightning. Heat spread across his body: Was he preparing for a fight? Would Hannibal try to kill him? But Hannibal remained seated at his desk, staring at Will, with relaxed shoulders and hands visible atop his desk.

“If Jack were to tell you all is forgiven, Will, would you accept his forgiveness?”

The realization came to Will like a divine message: _Equilibrium. He’s giving you a final chance to escape. This is the last time he will let you leave._ Will swallowed hard. He had stood between Jack and Hannibal for so long now. Both harmed him; both tried selfishly to help him. Two mismatched hands had attempted to mold Will into something palatable. 

“I don’t want Jack’s forgiveness,” he said, just above a whisper. He looked into Hannibal’s eyes. “And I won’t ask for anyone else’s.”.

Hannibal’s eyes smiled. His face was becoming so familiar to Will. When had that happened?

“You needn’t ask for mine. Even Steven.” 

With Hannibal’s words, Will sensed a shift in their relationship. Had they finally balanced one another’s crimes out? Was it possible for them to reach a tentative trust?

“There’s something you need to see. Would it be unprofessional to cut our session short this evening?”

Will’s anxiety spiked, but he attempted to moderate his expression.

“I won’t hold it against you.”

A mysterious smile flashed across Hannibal’s face, and he said, “In that case, I’ll meet you at my home.”

During the drive to Hannibal’s house, torrents of panic beat in Will’s chest. He had agreed to his own execution-- was driving himself there, no less. Part of him reasoned that Hannibal was unlikely to kill him during a scheduled appointment time; that seemed rather rude. However, Hannibal also seemed to exonerate himself through murder. Only a few weeks ago, Will would have called Jack Crawford from his car, alerting him of the potential danger so that, if nothing else, his body would be discovered quickly and linked to Hannibal Lecter. He would have died with the satisfaction of knowing his murder would result in a needle in Hannibal’s arm. Now, however, calling Jack was unfathomable. Whatever situation Will led himself into, he at least had chosen it for himself. 

Hannibal waited for Will at the front door. He let them both in, hung their coats, and ushered Will to the study. He lit a fire, and Will wondered if Hannibal was concealing nervousness in this delay. Will shuddered to think what form of death awaited him if Hannibal was hesitant. 

“May I?” Will asked, gesturing to a bottle of bourbon. 

“Of course,” Hannibal answered and got two glasses. 

Will poured two generous fingers in each. 

“There was something to show me?’ Will asked, not liking the feeling of powerlessness he had in the moment. He’d rather command the firing squad than keep the burlap sack on his head.

“I’ll bring it here.”

Will nodded and stared at the fire. As soon as Hannibal’s footsteps had receded out of hearing range, he knocked back the bourbon. Whether he was awaiting death or something equally terrible but unknowable, he wanted to have a modicum of liquid courage in his veins. Will stood staring at the fire for many minutes, each longer than the last. When he finally heard footsteps approaching the room, he refused to turn. The footsteps halted for a moment at the entrance to the study then proceeded to stand behind Will, who still didn’t turn. When Hannibal’s voice broke the silence, Will was unnerved to find the voice came not from directly behind him but from across the room. 

“I wanted to surprise you.”

Will finally forced himself to look.

“Abigail?”

“I didn’t know what else to do.”

Will’s world spun. Tears blurred his eyes. He reached out a hand to touch the girl’s face. He needed to know she was real, not one of Will’s nightmares or Hannibal’s tricks. 

“You’re alive.”

“Hope so,” she smiled through her own tears. 

Will laughed once sharply and wrapped his arms around her. For many seconds, they stood in the embrace as silent tears streamed down Will’s face. The emotions were purely Will’s, and he reveled in feeling certain of this. 

“What happened?” he asked in a hushed voice.

The two pulled back and looked at one another. Will searched Abigail for signs of harm or discomfort. She looked healthy and well-cared for. She wore jeans and a thick white turtleneck. Her dark hair hung in shiny curtains around her face. She looked like any normal teenager one might encounter, and Will found this fact unspeakably glorious. 

“Tell me everything. Where did you go? I thought I killed you. I thought _he_ killed you. They found so much blood,” Will rambled. 

Abigail sat in one of the chairs in front of the fire, and Will followed suit. 

“I’ve been here. There’s another house by the ocean. It’s boring being at one place all the time. Two isn’t much better,” Abigail said but shrugged. “I thought I was going to be arrested for helping my dad. I didn’t want to help him, but nobody seemed to care what I wanted. I’m sorry you thought you hurt me. I had to disappear. They wouldn’t leave me alone.”

Will half-heard her words, still marveling at her very existence.

“Hannibal helped me. He took my blood,” she paused, “and other things.”

_The ear funneled down my throat._

“Are you okay?” Will asked, dumbly.

Abigail smiled and gave another shrug. She answered, “My dad killed and ate girls who looked like me, and I helped him. I killed someone and had to die to stay out of jail. But I’m safe, and I don’t have reporters and cops asking me questions every five minutes. I’m okay.”

Will had missed her brash nonchalance. He had missed the way she looked at him like she understood why Garrett Jacob Hobbs had to die-- like she absolved him of his sin. 

Abigail continued, “I have a new name: Grace Anderson. I didn’t pick it.” She side-eyed Hannibal, who was still watching from the doorway. He had ceased to exist for a few moments, letting Abigail take his place in the world. “I only had one semester left to graduate, so I’m doing online school. It’s easy. Dull. This is the most exciting thing that’s happened in forever.”

Will smiled until his face hurt. He didn’t remember ever smiling that widely or genuinely in his life. 

“Dull can be good.”

Abigail rolled her eyes but kept a good-natured grin on her face. 

“What will you do, with your new life?” Will asked.

“I don’t know yet. I want to go to college in the fall. Hannibal said that I should go to Europe, that it would be safer. I’d like that. I’m not 18 yet-- Grace isn’t either, until May-- so I’m waiting until then, at least. Hannibal says it’ll make travel easier.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Will choked, still overcome even as the shock abated. He sounded doltish but didn’t care. He reached out to place a hand on Abigail’s arm. “I can’t believe you’re real.”

“Really real,” she joked. 

“What can I do to help you?”

Abigail paused, yet she looked like she knew what she was going to say and was only waiting for his benefit. 

“Hannibal said you live in the woods and have dogs.”

Caught off-guard, Will laughed again. “Not exactly in the woods, but yes.” 

“I’d like to come over some time. Play with the dogs, take a hike. He said you fish. I used to do that kind of stuff with my dad. It’d be nice to be outside without worrying about who can see me.”

Will’s chest tightened exquisitely.

“I fly fish when the weather is warm enough. My dad taught me. You’d like it,” he affirmed. 

They talked for hours. At some point during their conversation, Will realized Hannibal had left the room. He was too enthralled to wonder where he had gone. When the clock in the study struck midnight with chiming bells, Abigail sighed. 

“I have school tomorrow. I probably ought to go to bed.”

“You should get some sleep,” Will agreed. “Are you staying here tonight?”

She nodded, and they both stood up, stretching. “I have a room upstairs. I usually stay at the other house during the week. I like it, but sometimes it’s nice to be in the city. I can open the window and hear the cars and people talking; it feels like I’m not invisible.”

“Abigail,” Will whispered, “you will never be invisible.”

“I’m really glad to see you again.”

She squeezed him in a quick, tight hug and left. Will gave himself a few moments before he went in search of Hannibal. He found the man sitting at his dining room table reading a thin, leather-bound book. Hannibal placed a fabric bookmark between the pages and set the book aside. Will sat down at the seat next to Hannibal’s. 

“Did you enjoy your visit with Abigail?”

Will didn’t trust himself yet. 

“I thought you were going to kill me.”

“I’m not going to kill you, Will.”

“Yet,” Will added.

“I don’t plan on killing you at all.” Hannibal sounded so sure of this. 

“Why did you keep Abigail hidden?”

“I had to trust you would not take her from me,” Hannibal answered honestly.

“You let me believe she was dead.”

“Abigail had to die to move onto her next life. She was a casualty only of herself.”

“You could have told me.” Will hated that he sounded more sullen than angry.

“If I led Jack Crawford to Abigail, I would not have forgiven myself-- or you. I wasn’t willing to take that risk.”

In spite of himself, Will felt understanding creep in. _“Abigail reminded me so much of her.” Mischa._ Will recognized he had very little to do with Hannibal’s choice to protect Abigail from the rest of the world. 

“She wants to meet my dogs.”

Hannibal’s mouth twisted into a small grin. 

“I didn’t think you’d mind my mentioning them. Abigail’s environment growing up was quite...rustic. She will appreciate your home.”

Will didn’t ask whether “rustic” was meant to be an insult. Hannibal had heard Will’s dream of teaching Abigail to fish in his stream in Wolf Trap, and he had shaped reality around it.

“She’s bored.”

“Boredom is the province of teenagers.” Hannibal didn’t sound terribly sympathetic. “But you’re welcome to alleviate that at your convenience. You’re equally her father.” Hannibal reached into the interior pocket of his suit jacket and produced a ring with three keys jangling from it. Taking each key between his fingers one at a time, he recited, “Front door, basement door, seaside.” He held the ring out to Will, who cautiously received it. Hannibal clasped his hand over Will’s with the keys between them. “We’re equally responsible for Abigail’s well-being now.”

Hannibal released Will’s hand, and Will touched each key. The entire night had been surreal, and this was no exception. It was logical, but the unspoken implication was not lost on Will: _My space is open to you. My life is open to you._

“Do you always carry a spare set of keys in your suit?” Will asked lightly, looking at the metal in his hands.

“For a short while now, yes.”

Will’s thought of himself in Hannibal’s position: The weight of the keys was heavy in his pocket each time they met, him waiting for the sign, and each time, the sign failed to materialize. The keys were removed that night and placed into a new suit jacket the next day. The wait was agonizing.

Will ducked his head and let himself sit in borrowed pain. He put his hand over Hannibal’s on the table. He wrapped his fingers around the hand and turned it over so that they were palm to palm. Will let his fingers settle between Hannibal’s loosely, settling in the open spaces. In his periphery, Will could see Hannibal’s chest rise and fall more quickly.

“Thank you, Hannibal, for taking care of her.” Will turned toward him in his seat, his bent head now angled to see Hannibal’s face.

Hannibal mirrored Will, turning toward him. Their hands remained pressed together on the table. Hannibal finally looked from their intertwined hands to Will’s face. His eyes moved so slowly, taking in every angle and shadow. Once their eyes met, they stared deeply at one another for several breathless seconds. Hannibal licked his bottom lip unconsciously, and Will’s eyes darted down for a moment. Will thought of Hannibal’s mouth on countless glasses of wine at this table. Glasses of Scotch in the office. Wrapped around the flesh Will had provided and helped cook. He remembered Randall Tier next to where they now sat and Hannibal’s tender cleaning of Will’s knuckles. Will, who hated touch, had accumulated so many sense memories in their time together. 

“Will,” Hannibal breathed. Will stopped his words by dropping the keys onto his own lap and cupping the now-free hand around the top of Hannibal’s nape, right below his ear. The tips of Will’s fingers threaded into Hannibal’s hair. Will let his hand trail down Hannibal’s shoulder, feeling the tense, lean muscle knotted below the suit. For a moment, Hannibal’s breath audibly uneven, Will felt almost predatory. Looking the other man’s eyes, Will whispered, “I forgive you.”

Slowly, Will let his hand drop, and he stood. He felt bereft with his hands empty. Hannibal remained motionless. As Will passed by Hannibal, he let his hand gently graze the tip of Hannibal’s shoulder.

He left quickly, letting the shock of night air cool his face. His hands shook on the steering wheel. The closer Will got to Wolf Trap, the more his body relaxed. However, when he pulled up his driveway, he was welcomed by the alien sight of a limousine parked in front of his house.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to readers and commenters. I've been obsessed with writing this story while I have downtime, and I'm so glad others have enjoyed it. I'm still thinking ten chapters, but it may go longer if the story needs it.

Will entered his house to find Mason Verger sitting in an armchair. Two bulky men stood against a wall near the front door. The book he had been reading earlier was in Mason’s hands, Will’s bookmark tossed to the side. 

“Mr. Graham! So good to see you again!”

“Where are my dogs?”

“Oh, they’re fine. Maybe a little crowded. How many dogs can fit in a bathroom? I think I recall that problem on the SAT…”

“You broke my door.”

“Bill me. We need to have a little chat,” Mason said, gesturing to a chair from the kitchen placed near the armchair. “I don’t like to drop by unannounced. Never know what you might catch someone doing. Rarely anything interesting. But you, Mr. Graham, you _interest_ me.”

“How have I come to deserve such an honor?” Will asked flatly.

“I didn’t know you were the one I was visiting when we hit the gas pedal today. I would say our meeting in Dr. Lecter’s office was providence, seeing as how we’re practically _family_ now.”

Will raised his brows in expectant confusion. 

“Come now, don’t be shy. We’re all adults here,” Mason waved toward his bodyguards as he said it, as though Will might find their ears too delicate for whatever was about to be discussed. Mason’s face turned serious as he continued, “My sister. Margot. She’s come here two times in the last three weeks, and each time, she’s stayed over an hour. I’ve bred enough pigs to know what can happen in an hour.”

“Are you following her?”

Mason looked offended. “I love my sister very much. My father left her well-being in my hands. Sometimes she tries to rip it out of them, and I have to remind her how much I _care._ Following her would create distrust in our relationship. Now, GPS trackers are another matter entirely,” Mason laughed maniacally. “Margot gets these _ideas_ stuck in her head sometimes. When we were children, she wanted to be a ballerina. Then came the horses. Now, it’s a baby.”

“This has nothing to do with me.” Will wondered at the futility of speaking sanely to a clearly insane man. 

“I’ve had a hunch for a while now that Margot has been on the prowl for a lucky soul to invest in the family. I can admit that my sister is an attractive woman; money is also a very attractive trait.”

“I didn’t ‘invest’ in your sister,” Will half-spat. Mason’s intrusiveness and meandering words inspired a spark of disgust within Will.

“Then tell me, Mr. Graham, how those many hours were spent in Wolf Trap, Virginia?”

“Margot came to my house because she needed a friend. She was lonely. What could have caused that?”

Mason smiled. “I don’t believe you. But let’s say Margot did value you as a _conversationalist_ instead of a sperm donor. Friends share things. _Secrets._ My sister has gone missing. She left her car, her phone, and her pregnancy test. I was sure I was going to find her here.”

“I don’t know where Margot is.”

They were starting to talk in circles, and Will was becoming frustrated. The two men staring at him only exacerbated the simmering tension he felt.

“I had some free time waiting for you to come home. A great deal has been written about you. Do you know what I found most fascinating? You accused your therapist of committing murder and framing you for it-- and he’s still your therapist! They say _I’m_ crazy.”

“I guess you’ve discovered what flavor I am.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I did start connecting some dots,” Mason punctuated the words by drawing lines between imaginary dots in the air before him. “Why would a man go back to the same therapist who sent him to the bin? Why would he defend him to tabloid journalists? Papa _loved_ adages. I don’t know how many times I heard him say ‘Keep your friends close but your enemies closer.’ But I preferred the cherry ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’ I think that makes us friends, Mr. Graham.”

“Mason, as entertaining as this has been, what do you want with me?”

Mason huffed once, disappointed. “Dr. Lecter is a thorn in both of our sides. I can give you Dr. Lecter, and you give me Margot. Win-win. Well, double-win for me.”

“I don’t need your help to kill Hannibal Lecter.”

Mason looked at Will as though he was very, very stupid. 

“You know what makes a body disappear? Pigs. And you know what makes men disappear from their homes in the middle of the night? Them,” Mason pointed to the two men standing at the door. “You may not want my help, Mr. Graham, but you want my resources.”

Will read the threat in his words: Those men and pigs could be used against Will as easily as they were offered to him as tools.

“Providence,” Will repeated the word Mason had used, and Mason broke into a smile. 

“Yes. I _knew_ I liked you. Shall we?” Mason held his hand toward the door. 

“After you,” Will answered. 

Mason was unbearably talkative on the ride to Muskrat Farm. He either didn’t mind or didn’t notice Will’s lack of engagement in the conversation. Will tried to subtly get a sense of the farm’s landscape as they drove through the estate, but it was still pitch black outside.

When they finally stopped, Mason turned to Will and said, “Our guest of honor should be arriving shortly. Any special requests?”

It took Will a moment to realize Mason was asking him how he wanted to kill Hannibal.

“All I need is a knife.”

Mason clapped him on the back, “I have just the thing.” He walked Will inside to an elevated platform above a pen; pigs were clamoring below. A hook with a tattered suit hung over the platform where they stood. 

“A little project of mine,” Mason said as explanation. “Dr. Lecter will go there--” he pointed at the hook “--and you will put this--” he produced a knife “--here.” Mason slit his finger across his throat. Will opened the knife and watched the space’s industrial light gleam in the blade. “We’re about to have some good, funny times, Mr. Graham!” 

Mason escorted Will to an office connected to the pen room. He directed Will to sit and wait. As Mason left the room, he added, “And be sure to start remembering where my dear, wayward sister ran off to.”

Will looked around the room but saw no sign of escape. Even if he had, he realized, he wasn’t willing to leave Hannibal to die as pig feed. He could imagine no greater insult for Hannibal, and he half berated himself for not thinking of it during the many nights he spent devising executions in his cell at the BSHCI. The only plan Will could form was to free Hannibal and hope the two of them could get out of Muskrat Farm mostly alive. However, a horrifying thought came to Will: Abigail. She would be at Hannibal’s home when Mason sent his men. 

Trying to regulate his breathing to remain calm, Will started reasoning with himself. The men wouldn’t know about Abigail. She had a strong survival instinct. Hannibal’s house was large. It was possible she would avoid being taken. However, she would also be alarmed to hear a struggle in the middle of the night. It would only take a peek out of her door to be seen. They would take her and feed her to the pigs, or they would kill her there to avoid the trouble of transporting her. The thought of losing Abigail again-- at the hands of Mason Verger, no less-- right after he had gotten her back was almost unbearable. At least an hour passed before Mason returned, leaving Will too much time to pace the room thinking about Abigail. He was visibly agitated by the time Mason entered. 

“The doctor is here. Took him a minute to come around. My men had to drug him, feisty thing. He killed one of them.”

_Good for him._ Will remained silent.

Seeing Hannibal strapped into what looked like a strait jacket and hanging by a rope should have brought at least a modicum of joy to Will after all Hannibal had put him through, but he found his heart starting to race again and his stomach dropping. It looked wrong. They had finally reached a point of peace-- _equilibrium_ \-- and had come to some tentative understanding. He hadn’t killed Abigail, and he had returned her to Will. He had found a way to make his teacup come back together. Will realized with a wave of crushing pain that he had felt hope tonight. He had hope that Abigail would live a good life; he had hope that she might accept his offer of family; he had hope that his mind would stop racing every moment of every day now that he had chosen to not give Hannibal to Jack. _He had hope he would again feel his fingertips in Hannibal’s hair._ Now, all of his hopes were threatened by someone who most certainly did not deserve the power he wielded. 

As they approached the scene, Mason had to hurry to shove away a man-- Carlo-- who was raising a blade to Hannibal’s face threateningly. Will took a small bit of satisfaction in knowing that even as he was bound, shoeless, and hanging from a hook, Hannibal could incense someone with his words. Hannibal’s face was a mask of placid, unbothered coolness; Will was almost irritated that he could look so at ease and confident in spite of his current predicament.

Mason walked back to Hannibal and looked between him and the pigs below.

“Those little piggies are going to go eee-eee-eee all the way home. The swine may be shy about starting on the toes. We have to encourage them with a little sauce,” Mason looked back at Will. “So we're going to cut your throat.”

Mason went to Will and handed him the knife. 

“I've done my part. I've muzzled the dog, now you need to put it down.”

Will approached Hannibal with the blade heavy in his hands. Their eyes stayed locked. Hannibal’s mask was fixed firmly on his face. Will started to position the blade as though he was going to cut Hannibal from ear to ear, but Mason interrupted, “No, no, no! Don't let him bleed out. Just a little nick. Just enough to give the pigs a _taste_ of it.”

Mason backed off, and Will raised the blade to the side of Hannibal’s throat. He saw no fear in Hannibal’s eyes; the gaze was bathing him in affection, even now. Will took a final, deep breath and in swift motions twisted Hannibal around and sliced the white jacket in half down the back, releasing Hannibal. Through the sound of fabric tearing, Will heard Mason yell “Carlo!” and saw the man moving toward him quickly. Before he could turn toward Carlo to defend himself, Will felt a heavy blow strike him, and he fell to the floor, head hitting the cement. Will’s vision went black. 

He came to a few moments later; the first thing he saw was Carlo’s dead eyes staring at him from six feet away. Will heard the sounds of a struggle and tried to pull himself up through the dizziness. He sat up and grabbed Carlo’s gun but couldn’t quite get to his feet yet. The noise was coming from Mason, who was tied and gagged with socks. Will scanned the room for Hannibal. He heard a resonating thud coming from the direction of the office Will had been locked in earlier. He turned to see Hannibal, shirt half-covered in blood, driving his shoulder against the door. Will realized he had never seen Hannibal kill a man. Oh, there had been plenty evidence of it, but he had never witnessed it himself. 

With a final assault, the door broke open. Will forced himself to rise and make his way to the office. Inside was Hannibal and one of the men who had been guarding the door at Will’s house. The man’s nose was pouring blood, but he was not yet overcome. He went for Hannibal again; a punch rolled against Hannibal’s cheek as he turned his head, but the proximity gave Hannibal the opportunity to drive the man backward, ramming him into the corner of a large wooden desk. The man yelped as his tailbone hit the corner, and he arched unstably; Hannibal used this to forcefully kick the knee of the leg holding most of the man’s weight, and he went down. Hannibal went with him and straddled him. The man began to buck and resist, but Hannibal had grabbed two handfuls of hair and was beating his head against the ground now. There was a crack, and the man’s legs stopped moving. 

Hannibal was red to his elbows. His eyes were dark and shining. Locks of hair fell in his streaked face in loose strands. He looked lean and almost boyish. Every visible muscle was taught. A halo of blood formed around the bodyguard’s head as he blindly stared heavenward. Hannibal noticed Will, then, but his demeanor was still animalistic. Behind Will, the sound of men calling pulled them both away from the gravity of the shared moment. Mason was being untied and urged the other imposing guard from Will’s house to kill them; an unknown additional man accompanied him. 

Hannibal was quicker than Will. He was to his feet and rushing them; he didn’t want them to have time to aim their guns, Will thought. Through the haze of his head injury, Will focused on wrestling the gun away from the man Hannibal had not leapt at. He caused the man to fire several times into the wall before the gun fell from his hand. Will kicked it into the pig pen. They squared up to each other, then, and Will dodged a thrown punch. Screaming and a flurry of activities from the pigs let Will know that Hannibal had pushed the guard he recognized from earlier into the pen.

Hannibal assessed the struggle Will had found himself in. The man was stout and muscle-bound, and Will’s dizziness made it difficult for him to keep his footing when the other man threw his weight into his attacks. The man landed a punch against the side of Will’s head that was already bleeding, and he saw stars. Hannibal pounced the man from behind, wrapping his arm around the man’s neck the way Will had done to Freddie Lounds. The man flopped backwards, slamming Hannibal into the hard ground. Hannibal had wisely kept his head lifted, though, so while the air was knocked out of him, he did not hit the back of his skull. He kept his arm around the man’s neck even on the ground, but Will could see his arms loosening with every beat of the man’s back against his chest. The man was attempting to crush Hannibal against the ground. Will realized he still had Carlo’s gun. Hannibal saw Will take the gun from his waistband and used a final jolt of strength to push his opponent off of him. The man landed half on his side; Will shot him twice in the chest. 

Will leaned over, his sight still spinning. Unspeakably sharp pain pulled him from the starry, concussive world he had been in as a knife plunged into his side and pulled upward toward his ribs. The cut was deep. Will numbly tried to think of what internal organs might have been ruptured, but the sight of blood pouring from him to the floor halted that train of thought. Mason Verger’s hand was still on the handle of the blade. He shoved it inward as far as he could, eliciting a cry from Will, and when he tore the knife free, Will dropped to the floor. 

Every breath hurt, and he tasted blood. From the ground, Will wondered if he was going to die. He tried to absorb the world a final time. The early dawn light started to illuminate the windows, and the automatic lights above the pen had turned off. The pools of blood covering the floor around him-- some in light, some in shadows-- dappled his vision red and black. From a few feet away, Mason crawled into his frame of view, scrambling. Will watched with detached interest as Hannibal yanked Mason’s leg hard enough to make him yelp and fall onto his stomach. Hannibal put one foot on Mason’s back and the other under his chin in an unnatural bend. He moved the foot off of his back and planted it next to Mason so that he could squat down, still holding Mason’s chin up. Will couldn’t hear what Hannibal was saying, but Mason stopped struggling. He didn’t start moving again until Hannibal’s head darted forward and bit a chunk out of Mason’s neck, sending blood spraying outward. 

Will looked at Hannibal’s reddened mouth; he lorded over Mason and the blood-splattered floor. Will’s own hands were black with blood. He was surprised to find no stag. Perhaps he had blackened himself enough that the stag was no longer necessary.

Too quietly to be heard by anyone else, Will whispered, “It’s beautiful.” Then, his world went dark. 

_Flashes of white. Blinding overhead lights._

_Masked faces crowding over Will._

_Pain, agonizing pain._

_Hannibal covered in blood. Hannibal in a clean, white shirt._

_Officers. Screaming._

Will opened his eyes. He was in a hospital bed. IVs were strapped to his arms, but he was thankful there was no tube shoved down his throat. He was between complete numbness and every inch of his body aching. Even through the medication, he found himself taking very shallow breaths to lessen the sharpness of the pain. He swallowed hard. His throat was horribly dry. He looked slowly around the room; if he moved his eyes too quickly, his head pounded harder. 

Sitting in a chair to the side of his bed was Hannibal, neat and looking fairly unscathed. Will couldn’t speak, so he cleared his throat the best he could. The noise jerked Hannibal to attention. 

“Will…”

Will blinked at him and opened and closed his mouth. 

Hannibal understood and got water for him off of the bedside table. He held the straw up for Will. It was the best water Will had ever tasted. 

“Thanks,” he croaked out. Hannibal stood silently, looking for the first time like he was lost. 

“Did we die?” Will asked, only half joking. Hannibal didn’t smile back.

“You did, three times.”

“Feels like I died three times.” Hannibal did smile the slightest bit at that.

“Mason?”

“Alive. Barely. He took a tumble into his own pig pen. Margot is caring for him.”

Will nodded. 

“Police?”

Hannibal exhaled in a sigh. Will could tell he wanted to scold him for asking so many questions, but if they were going to be arrested, this might be the only chance they had to align their stories. 

“We were both kidnapped from our homes. Self-defense won’t be prosecuted.”

“Jack will try.”

“No, I don’t think he will.” Hannibal looked resolved. “My attorney tells me that he has been placed on forced bereavement leave at the discretion of Kate Prurnell.”

Will wasn’t aware enough to process the nuances of this new information, so he simply nodded again. “How long?” he asked weakly. His throat was too raw for much speech.

“Ten days. Did it feel that long?”

“No, shorter. I remember about five seconds of it, not in order.”

“That’s for the best.”

“Do I want to know the damage?”

“Concussion. Your kidney and liver were both lacerated. Muscle tearing was extensive. They’ve performed multiple surgeries on you now. Your doctors don’t believe there will be any significant long-term damage, but recovery will be slow because of the location of the muscle tissue."

“You agree?”

“Yes, I do.”

Will felt tired even though he’d only woken up. 

“How did I get here?”

Hannibal’s mouth turned upward but his brow furrowed. “I called the police.”

The pain in Will’s abdomen prevented him from laughing, but he slowly shook his head, amused. 

“Abigail sends her love.”

Will’s eyes opened wider, and Hannibal read the cue to continue.

“She hid under her bed. They didn’t know to look for her. She rightly felt it unwise to notify the police, so she simply waited. I should have prepared her for all contingencies. That was my error, and it will be corrected.”

Will closed his eyes and leaned against the pillow. He was almost asleep when a thought occurred to him. His eyes flickered open, and he asked, “Dogs?”

“They are fine, Will. Cared for and as content as they can be without your presence.”

Satisfied, Will laid back his head. The image of his dogs running in his field lulled him to sleep.

He was roused the next morning to a nurse checking his vitals. Hannibal was gone. 

“Look who’s up and at ‘em.”

“Up,” Will responded. 

The nurse handed him a mug of water with a straw. 

“If you’ve still got your sense of humor, I have faith in you.” 

She jotted down a few notes on an iPad. 

“It’s good to see you awake. I’ve been checking on you just about every morning since you got here. Gave a lot of people a good scare. Anything I can get for you before I go?”

“The man who was here last night...,” Will trailed off as he realized he didn’t know what he was really asking.

“He’s gone right now. He’ll be back, always is. I don’t know if he’s charmed or paid off the night staff-- they never kick him out.”

That sounded fairly accurate to Will. He rested again with the knowledge that Hannibal would be back when he awoke.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life can't be all murder all the time. This chapter's a touch sweeter.

“No, absolutely not.”

Will sat in his hospital bed, arms crossed. 

“You suffered severe internal injuries. Four more days of hospitalization is not unreasonable.”

“What’s the purpose? Frankly, it’s unnecessary.”

Will knew he looked like a toddler on the verge of tantrum, but he felt he had been exceedingly patient. The only food he ate was what Hannibal brought him, and he had read all of the books easily available. In addition to his general lack of comfort, he could barely sleep now; the reduced pain medication made his mind clearer, but he found it impossible to sleep through the endless noise of the hospital. The lack of sleep also made him more susceptible to being flooded by the sporadic bursts of emotion visible in any hospital-- grief, fear, pain, anxiety. They all snaked into his brain and slithered around inside. 

“Doctors must consider all complications. Your abdominal instability leaves you vulnerable to further injury. Infection, sepsis, internal bleeding, an opened incision-- there are countless approaches our bodies may take to destroy us.” 

Will sharply exhaled. “I could just leave. It’s not illegal.”

“It’s woefully ill-advised,” Hannibal firmly responded. “How long would it take to reach proper medical facilities from your home? That’s assuming, of course, you recognize your decline while still coherent enough to seek help.”

Will was on the verge of begrudgingly agreeing to stay when a softly crying woman passed by the cracked door; he felt his chest tighten. He had to remind himself that he was okay and her pain was not his own. Hannibal caught Will’s struggle in his flash of expression. 

“I can choose my physical health or my mental health. I’ve made my choice.”

“This is a distressing place for you,” Hannibal stated, no note of questioning in his voice. “One’s mental and physical health are intertwined. The suffering of either typically leads to the suffering of both.” He evaluated Will’s crossed arms and tense expression. “You will require someone remain in close proximity for a few more days, at least.”

Will realized what Hannibal was considering. 

Will wanted to be at home with his dogs, far from the emotional static of the hospital, but that option seemed out of reach for now. Ultimately, Will’s decision came down, as it so often did, to choosing the lesser of a variety of evils. He could be unhappy but alive in the hospital, happier but possibly dead in Wolf Trap, or alive and generally comfortable at Hannibal’s home. If he was destined to forgo happiness, he’d prefer to be outside of the hospital. Hannibal’s home-- and Abigail’s, he reminded himself-- could be a tolerable compromise. 

He tried to envision himself in the Baltimore home; as he did so, the thought of having another person around while he was still so limited in mobility was surprisingly comforting. He wouldn’t have to struggle to cook his own food or take care of the dogs; he wouldn’t have to figure out a way to do laundry without bending at the waist; he wouldn’t have to fear that every time he lost his balance he was going to bleed out on his floor. 

“I imagine you would be a terror as a patient,” Hannibal dead-panned.

“I’m already your patient, Dr. Lecter,” Will responded, trying to look as beguiling as possible in spite of his decidedly unbecoming state. Will looked up doe-eyed. He felt only the whisper of shame for his heavy-handed manipulation. “I need you, Hannibal. Please.”

An amused but gratified smile touched Hannibal’s eyes. He understood Will’s game but was not quite unaffected by it. 

“I’ll speak to your doctors.”

“Thank you, Hannibal.” Will found himself enjoying the tiny power his words gave him. 

The man disappeared into the hallway to arrange a release. Will felt a bloom of excitement at the prospect of moving around freely again even as apprehensions about staying with Hannibal-- under his care, to be precise-- lingered at the edges of his thoughts. 

Hannibal came back around fifteen minutes later, all business. 

“They have agreed to endorse your release, with reservations. They need to remove your staples. I’ll return for you at noon.”

Hannibal didn’t wait for Will to respond-- he was fixed on his mission now. 

Will tried reading a collection of pot-boiler detective stories but found himself reading the same sentences over and over. The doctor entering his room was almost a welcome sight. The staple removal was quick and painless, and the doctor left Will with a stack of paperwork, multiple folders on recovery for his assortment of injuries, and a firm warning to contact her immediately if he felt worse. Will flipped idly through the papers, still distractible. A rap on the door finally focused Will’s attention. Jack Crawford entered and sat in the chair by Will’s bed, not making eye contact. 

Will looked at his blanket studiously.

“I heard about Bella. She was a good woman.”

“A very good woman,” Jack quietly agreed, twisting his hat in his hands.

A long, uncomfortable silence passed between them.

“Will, what happened?” Jack sounded confused, hurt.

Will chose his words thoughtfully. “There’s a lot of time missing.”

Jack looked up at him then, a hint of frustration coloring his sadness.

“Five men dead, Mason Verger disfigured beyond recognition, you half dead on the floor, and Hannibal Lecter covered in blood yet somehow still standing. Help me understand, Will.”

Will considered the scene from Jack’s perspective.

“What did Mason tell you?”

“Mason Verger claims he invited you and Dr. Lecter to his home to discuss his sister. He fell into the pig pen, his guards mistakenly thought he was pushed, and a fight broke out. Of course, he was conveniently in the pen during all of this, so there are some holes. The last thing he supposedly recalls is being pulled from the pen by Dr. Lecter. Saved his life.”

Mason couldn’t tell the truth without giving himself away, and any lies he produced would either be defied by Hannibal and Will’s aligned version of events or remove Hannibal from his clutches for good. 

“I’ve been in a hospital bed for over two weeks now. I can’t remember most of that time. I died, repeatedly.” Will stared straight at the wall ahead of him. “Can’t think of anything to add.”

Jack’s brow drew into a hard line, and he bared his teeth. 

“This isn’t a game, Will. This was our best chance.”

“No, Jack, this was your best chance. I think I’ve been letting my empathy confuse what you want for what I want,” Will echoed Jack’s words from his office back to him. “I’m resigning.”

“They’ll charge you with Randall Tier’s murder.”

“If they do, I’ll tell every journalist who comes to my door that it was sanctioned and documented by the FBI. I think they’ve made enough mistakes where I’m concerned.” Will’s voice conveyed confidence he did not feel. He set his mouth in a tight line. 

“What has he done to you?”

A hollow chuckle escaped Will’s throat. 

“He provided me with therapy. I appreciate the recommendation, Jack.”

Jack stood with a rough push of the chair. 

“Agent Crawford,” Hannibal’s deceptively cordial voice called out from the entrance. He gave Jack a wide buffer as he walked to the foot of Will’s bed. Will couldn’t fathom how impolite Hannibal would find scuffling in a hospital room. 

“Doctor.”

“Is there anything with which I may assist?” he asked in a clipped voice.

“Have you found time to give a comprehensive statement?”

“Has my attorney scheduled a time?” Hannibal feigned curiosity.

Jack smiled derisively and replied, “No, he hasn’t.”

“Then I’m afraid I’m still disinclined to pay you a visit.”

“I didn’t expect otherwise,” Jack said, walking to the door. He looked at Will from the doorway as though he wanted to say something but ultimately sighed and left. 

Hannibal set about straightening up Will’s things and putting them into a leather bag. As he worked, he asked, “Was Agent Crawford here long?”

Hannibal sounded restrained. In spite of his current frustration, Will didn’t want to volunteer Jack for Hannibal’s dinner table. He understood why Jack was made; he wasn’t wrong.

“No, I think he’s looking for a distraction.” It sounded weak to Will.

“You make apologies for him. Did he come here to apologize to you?”

Will didn’t answer Hannibal’s question. Instead, he resolutely said, “I’m ready to go.”

“Yes, of course.”

Every bump in the road caused Will to wince. Nevertheless, if seeing the sun and sky again helped dull the sting of his injury, the familiar sight of Hannibal’s home was practically medicinal. Will felt the first semblance of normalcy. How often he had found himself waiting on that doorstep. It was good to be there again. 

Hannibal unlocked the door, and Will heard a familiar tapping sound as he pushed the door open. Upon seeing him, Winston began to bark and move his feet in an excited prance as he backed up to let Will enter. Will was mindful of his injured side and wrapped midsection when he leaned down as far as he could to scruff Winston behind both ears. 

“I’ve missed you, buddy. I’m sorry I was gone so long.”

The dog registered Will’s grimace when he leaned down, so he sat himself firmly on Will’s feet as if telling him to stay put; his head turned up to stare with unabashed adoration at Will. 

Abigail stood further down the hall, smiling. 

“I’ve been telling him you’re coming home all morning,” Abigail told Will as she came to join them. “He knows your name.”

Will braced himself against the wall and laughed as Winston nuzzled against his knees.

“I’m so glad to see you,” he said to Winston affectionately. “And I’m glad to see you, Abigail,” he added awkwardly, with a sheepish grin. She didn’t appear insulted. 

“I’m glad you’re here. I’m sorry I couldn’t visit you. It’s just...my face, y’know? It was on TV a lot for a while.”

Will nodded understandingly. 

“Where’s everyone else?” Will asked.

“Alana took Buster, Zoe, and Ellie; she got a guy from work-- Price?-- to take Harley. Max and Jack are at my house...my other house,” Abigail listed off the dogs by name, and Will’s heart warmed even further.

“Abigail has been spending the night at our seaside home to care for them. She’s found great amusement in your animals.”

“How did Winston end up being the lucky one?” Will asked, smoothing the dog’s furry head with his fingers.

“He was very stubborn. He refused to get off your bed even after the others had gone. Once I had him in my car--,” Will tried not to let his face look shocked at the idea of dogs in Hannibal’s Bentley, “--he refused to leave there as well. He was supposed to go with Mr. Price. He chose otherwise.”

Will was so thankful for how bad he was at following rules. 

“He’s the newest member of the family. He hasn’t learned everything yet.”

“Oh, I believe it to be quite a sign of intellect. He alone has slept by my fire, and he alone is with you now. What does that suggest about obedience?” Hannibal wondered, looking at Winston with the slightest hint of approval.

Will continued petting Winston instead of responding to Hannibal. Eventually, Abigail called Winston away to free Will to go upstairs. Hannibal led him to an ornate room. 

“You’ll take the master bedroom,” he said simply. 

Will started to object, saying, “Hannibal, I will not--”

Hannibal cut him off abruptly, “This is an old house. It’s the only bedroom with an en suite bathtub. My home office is only a few steps away if you need anything during the day.”

“What about your patients?”

“I’m caring for a patient. The others have been directed to call me directly if there is an emergency.”

Will was tired, lacking the energy to argue. Hannibal’s sense of duty to his guest would forbid negotiation. The idea of being able to take a warm bath to ease his battered body was undeniably appealing. He had resorted to sponge baths in the tiny hospital shower, and his arm on his right side could barely reach his hair due to the pulling it caused his injured muscles. 

Hannibal put Will’s paperwork in an empty bedside table drawer and assured him the sheets were freshly laundered, although Will wouldn’t have thought otherwise. For Will’s convenience, he filled a pitcher of water to sit on the bedside table and placed a clean glass next to it. 

“I imagine you need rest. Is there anything you require before I leave you?”

Will could think of nothing. He sank into the soft bed and wondered if it was more expensive than his car. Winston soon snuck in and sat by the bed wagging his tail wildly. Will could see in his eyes that he wanted to jump up; Will gave him a warning glare and a firm, “No.” Will let his hand flop off of the bed, and Winston curled up under its shadow.

Will woke up after sunset. Winston sat next to the bed, watching Will. 

“What’s up, Winston? Miss me?”

The dog made a small whimpering noise and half ran to the door, then ran back. The smell of cooking food wafted through the bedroom.

“Turncoat,” Will accused. His own stomach betrayed him and growled. He had to practically roll off the bed to his feet to avoid the pain of sitting up. 

He cautiously made his way to the stairs with Winston at his side. Going downstairs was harder than going up because of how he had to extend one side of his body at a time to reach for the next step. He ended up going down the stairs sideways, clutching the railing the entire way down. He and the dog followed the aroma and sounds to the kitchen. At the stove, Hannibal removed a flaming pan, waited until the fire receded, and then put it on a cold burner. He wore a dress shirt with vertical stripes; his sleeves were rolled to his elbows, and he had undone the top button. After the weeks in the hospital and the battle at Muskrat Farm, Will allowed himself a moment to appreciate the sight of Hannibal in his element. _One part of Hannibal in his element._ He looked serene; Will wondered if this was the kitchen in his mind palace or if another from his past held that distinction. It was no wonder Hannibal had managed to evade capture for so many years. Even though Will had now witnessed the breathtaking savagery Hannibal was capable of, he would never in his wildest dreams have imagined the polished, artful man in this kitchen committing gruesome murders. _It’s beautiful,_ his mind whispered back to him. 

Hannibal caught sight of Will and smiled. 

“I’m afraid I cannot let you sous-chef for the foreseeable future. A hazard of being friend and doctor.”

“I suspect you usually let me help you more for my benefit than your own.” Hannibal’s smile broadened at that. His warmth came easily tonight. “Abigail?”

“She had to leave, unfortunately. She’s inarguably chosen the dogs over either of us.” 

Will felt his chest warm with satisfaction. He pictured them fly fishing, all of his pack lazing around the stream. He would show her how to clean the fish for cooking. She wouldn’t flinch at the cut of the knife. 

“I’m not much fun right now anyway. And, I think I smell like a hospital.” Realizing that Hannibal could confirm or deny this for him, Will asked, “Do I smell like a hospital?”

Hannibal continued plating the food and answered, “I’ll bring bath towels to your room after dinner.”

Will stifled a groan, feeling particularly disgusting in the plush setting. 

Dinner was simple and strictly portioned; Will needed to slowly integrate more flavorful and fatty foods into his diet to avoid making himself ill. They had gnocchi with very lean blackened turkey breast and a flavorful, translucent poultry stock. After two weeks of eating either nothing or single meals snuck in by Hannibal, sitting at a dining room table and enjoying a meticulously prepared dinner was next to heavenly. The promise that this meal was only the first of many outside of the hospital added to Will’s enjoyment. 

After dinner, Hannibal worked on dishes while Will went upstairs to check out the bathroom set-up. Hannibal’s washroom was roughly the size of Will’s kitchen. In the corner, there was a beautiful gray stone standing shower. Next to it was a slim water closet. The double vanity stretched along the wall opposite the shower; live plants hung in the space between the top line of the vanity and the ceiling. In the center of the room, Hannibal had installed an oversized clawfoot bathtub. Everything in the room except the plants was either sparkling white or a sterile gray. Will wasn’t surprised at the aesthetics of the space, but he also couldn’t imagine living here. It was so far removed from Will’s home in Wolf Trap.

Will took his next dose of medication. The throbbing in his side was slowly reappearing as the previous dose wore off. He swallowed back the pills with a handful of water from the sink. He looked at himself under the bright lights and found himself ghostly and damaged. His head injury was mostly healed, but the bruise from the impact still cut across his temple with a scabbed line running in the center of it. Black circles had settled under his eyes. He unbuttoned his shirt halfway; he had not looked at the stab wound so clearly yet and wasn’t sure he wanted to. He supposed he would have to eventually, and waiting would only make it feel more insurmountable. He let his shirt fall off his shoulders to the floor. He first noticed that he looked slightly gaunt, having visibly lost weight and muscle during the hospital stay. The wound was a deep red, his skin having been pulled back together and sealed shut. Small red dots lined the closed gash on either side where the staples had been. His torso had numerous bruises, some of the darkest still near the entry point of the blade. The idea that his flesh was held shut by stitches inside his body made him feel queasy. But the longer he looked, the more normal it seemed, so he forced himself to stare at the angry mark until it started to feel like part of him.

Two gentle knocks on the door pulled him from this ritual. Hannibal’s voice called, “Will?”

Will opened the door and watched as Hannibal’s eyes immediately went to the wound. His face turned rigid; his arms tensed under the towels he held. Will took the towels from his hands, letting their arms touch to bring Hannibal back from his thoughts. He imagined Hannibal was at Muskrat Farm again. Hannibal swallowed visibly and looked at Will. It seemed difficult for him to shake the darkness that had settled around him; he was normally extremely skilled at replacing one mask with another. 

Will couldn’t tell if he was feeling sympathy for Hannibal or unknowingly internalizing the man’s angry distress, but he recognized that Hannibal was struggling to not see Will as the delicate teacup he had once accused Jack of perceiving Will to be. It was almost funny that after years of killing, Hannibal was shaken by a stark reminder of mortality. _Your mortality._ Will took Hannibal’s hand in his own and placed it in an L around the red skin. He wanted Hannibal to feel he was alive and healing. He wanted Hannibal to know his body would recover and that burning down the world was not necessary. Will let his hand fall, but Hannibal’s remained. 

“I’m okay. I’ll be okay.” Hannibal didn’t look entirely convinced, so Will lightly added, “Has anyone ever told you you worry too much, Dr. Lecter?”

Hannibal retracted his hand. “You would be the first, Will.” He tempered the thick emotion in his voice and spoke again, sounding slightly dispassionate. “Do you have everything you need? Or, perhaps, I’m putting the proverbial cart before the horse. Are you able to bathe independently?”

The question was asked as though inquiring, ‘Tea or coffee?’

Will tried to look more serious than scandalized. 

“Well, I guess. My body is...reachable...but washing my hair is a little difficult. I can’t get this arm past here without pain,” Will answered as he held up the arm on his wounded side to a little below shoulder height. He was circling the point. “I don’t want to ask you to wash my hair for me, Hannibal.”

Hannibal chewed on his words for a moment.

“There’s a large difference between not wanting something and not wanting to ask for it.”

Will sighed uncomfortably just to fill the silence. “The asking is the hard part,” Will responded noncommittally.

“Especially for you, Will.”

Will looked everywhere but Hannibal. Hannibal, meanwhile, stood perfectly still and patient. He wanted Will to unambiguously say if he wanted this particularly intimate form of help or not.

“It would be good to have help washing my hair. Tonight.” Will added the last word with emphasis. 

“Then, I’ll be glad to help you. I’ll give you a few minutes to settle.”

The room seemed even larger when Hannibal left. Will drew a bath, discarded his clothing to the side of the room, and slipped into the hot water. He felt like he was melting into the bath, every muscle and bone becoming liquid in the heat. He let his head slip under the water to dampen his hair. When he surfaced, he put his usable arm to his head, testing to see if it was feasible for him to bathe unaided. He found it was possible, though awkward. He could-- should-- send Hannibal away when he returned. 

Hannibal came into the room a few minutes later with a small glass pitcher in one hand and a bottle of what was presumably shampoo in the other. He looked so at ease while Will attempted to twist his body in the tub for minimum exposure without Hannibal noticing. Will tried to speak, to tell Hannibal he didn’t need his help after all, but no sound emerged. His mind, which had been so blessedly quiet since leaving the hospital this morning, was lighting up with thought: _Run. Stay. Tell him to go. Tell him you don’t need him for this or anything else. Feel his hands. Pull him into the water so that the heat melts you together._ Ultimately, Will froze and tried to wish himself invisible.

Hannibal brought a stool from one of the vanities to the tub. He pushed his sleeves up further. Will was grateful Hannibal was sitting behind him so that he could not see his face. He saw the small pitcher swoop next to his face and into the water-- Hannibal’s hand dipping it so close to Will’s skin-- and thoughts sped to a frantic pace. However, his brain was abruptly silenced when Will smelled the minty shampoo, heard it slick in Hannibal’s hands, and felt the sure touch of a practiced surgeon massaging the soap into his hair. The fingers working their way around his scalp were firm but reverent and sent tingles down his spine. Will felt his brain may have short-circuited as his senses struggled to process the experience. He wanted to remember the fresh, herbal smell and tingle of spearmint; he needed the sense memory of Hannibal’s deft hands working methodically through his hair, first spreading the shampoo around in short, raking strokes and then kneading his way around Will’s head.

“Lean forward for me, Will. Just a bit.”

Will obeyed mindlessly. He couldn’t recall the last time he had allowed someone this degree of physical access; being able to selfishly receive touch without concerning himself about the other person’s reaction was addictive. He wished for time to slow. When Hannibal’s hands started working their way from the nape of his neck to behind his ears, Will released a soft sigh. He shut his mouth tightly after that, not trusting it. 

“Forward a bit more and close your eyes.”

Will mumbled, “Closed for a while now.”

Hannibal chuckled behind him. He placed one hand like a viser over Will’s brow and used the other to pour clean, warm water over Will’s hair. He did this multiple times, sometimes removing the hand from Will’s face to tousle the hair as he poured the water over it. Will almost shuddered when the warmth of Hannibal’s hands drifted away.

“All done. Do you feel better, Will?”

Will slumped in the tub, eyes still closed and body loose. 

“I feel like water,” came his unexpected response. 

“The highest of compliments,” Hannibal chirped back as he collected the pitcher and shampoo. “Towels are on the stool behind you. I’ll put fresh water on your table in the bedroom. Good night, Will.”

And with that, the door closed, and Will was left dreamily floating, alone in the molten sea of his mind.


	9. Chapter 9

The next several days, Will cycled through the same pattern. He awoke well-rested in Hannibal’s bed, took his morning dose of medication, and allowed himself at least thirty minutes of self-flagellation at his pathetic acceptance of every luxury Hannibal offered. Ire rose in his chest as he thought of how damned smug Hannibal must feel knowing Will was sleeping in his bed, eating his food, and even being bathed by his hands. 

When his anger was at a fever pitch, Hannibal would appear in the doorway, cool as ever, and tell Will that there was breakfast ready if he wanted to join him. Will hated Hannibal for giving Will the choice, and he hated himself for inevitably sitting down at the table. 

After breakfast, Will would walk up and down the stairs a few times to stretch. By the fifth day, he was able to ascend and descend more or less normally. Then, Will would take Winston on a long walk around the surrounding blocks. They often stayed gone until lunch time, and Will would commit his daily act of rebellion by buying something Hannibal would find truly grotesque from one of the nearby restaurants-- a double grilled cheese with salty pickles, a crab salad roll with distinctly artificial crab, and even a sushi burrito once. Will brought these prizes home with him and took immense pleasure at eating them off of one of Hannibal’s plates. Although Hannibal would simply ask what Will procured for himself today, his lingering gaze on the offending food on his china communicated tremendous disdain. 

Following lunch, Will would take his midday dose of medication and troll the study bookshelves. He’d pick something, read for maybe an hour with Winston near his feet, and then fall asleep as the pain medication kicked in. Abigail entering the house would wake him up, and he’d take genuine pleasure in hearing about her school work and spending time with his dogs. She always brought photos and videos to show Will, and Winston would pop up between their chairs curiously at the sound of his friends playing without him. Will felt guiltiest in this moment. Hannibal would allow them to help him with dinner-- even Will by the third day-- and seemed more pleased than exasperated by Will and Abigail finding great humor in their shared incompetence. After dinner, Abigail would reluctantly leave, torn between enjoying the chance to interact with other humans and not wanting to abandon Max and Jack too long. Once Abigail left, Will would offer to help clean up, Hannibal would decline, and Will would take Winston on a final walk in the cold evening air. 

When Will returned and retreated to the bedroom, his anticipation would flare as he waited for the nightly ritual to begin. He would dawdle in the bedroom until Hannibal came to present him with clean towels. Will would accept the towels, and Hannibal would ask, “Would you like my assistance?” The phrasing was not lost on Will-- Hannibal was not asking if he _needed_ help; Will only had to _want_ it. No matter what Will planned to say-- and he had a few fiery gems stored-- he found himself whispering, “Yes.” 

If someone had asked Will why he allowed-- no, requested-- this from Hannibal, he would have heaved a sigh and bitten off a remark about how being gutted by a pig heir tended to leave one somewhat incapacitated. The truth, however, was much less complex: It felt good-- good enough to make Will’s mind shut down for fifteen blessed minutes each day. The only other time in recent memory Will had enjoyed such quiet was when he was killing Randall Tier and Freddie Lounds. He didn’t think too hard about what wires must be horribly crossed in his brain or how touch-deprived he must be that murdering and having his hair gently washed had the same effect on him. 

When Hannibal was done, he would remind Will the towels were behind him and there was water on the bedside table, and then he’d leave without further comment. In general, Will noticed Hannibal had been rather quiet during Will’s stay. He barely probed at Will with clawed, philosophical questions, and his conversations tended toward neutral topics-- traveling, Will’s cooking ability, the article he was writing during his days off from appointments, and what Will might want to do now that he had proclaimed to Jack that he was resigning. Will appreciated the space Hannibal had worked very hard to give him, but it was distractingly odd.

On the one-week anniversary of Will’s stay, he woke feeling markedly better. He sat up slowly and with extreme soreness, but the sharp jabs that caused him to half-roll out of bed each morning had greatly abated. He halved his medication. By midday, he felt no worse, and the reduced pain medication left him more energized. 

Will tapped on the partially closed door of Hannibal’s study. As a rule, he didn’t bother the man while he was working, but he needed to talk to Hannibal before his energy and resolve waned. 

“Will,” Hannibal said looking up from his writing. “Are you all right?”

“The best I’ve felt. I cut down my medication this morning. I can even sit up,” he smiled.

“I heard you wandering around today. Your footsteps suggested restlessness. It was good to hear.” Hannibal looked genuinely glad. Hannibal waited for Will to come to his point.

“I’m going home,” Will blurted. “Tonight.”

Hannibal’s expression did not change when he said, “I would expect you’re very anxious to return to your life. Much of human action can be attributed to the desire to find and maintain stasis. Men often behave inexplicably to achieve this state. Homes may be our most cherished symbols of normality.”

Coming from Hannibal, Will wasn’t sure if this was an observation or a criticism. 

“Home is more an accomplishment than a place for me,” he responded, firm but not annoyed. 

“For me, as well. What signifies home for you?” Hannibal questioned.

“On the way to Wolf Trap, there’s a point in the road where the trees become so thick you can’t see anything else past them. They even block out the sun. That’s when I know I’m close. The time I reach the trees to the time I’m in my driveway is eight minutes and twenty-five seconds exactly. That’s when I miss home the most.”

Hannibal considered this and quoted, “‘Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is happiness.’ Does happiness await you there, Will?”

“Happiness doesn’t _await_ anyone. The best I can hope for is the opportunity for happiness.”

A few seconds of not uncomfortable silence passed between them. 

“I’ll call Alana and Abigail to arrange for your dogs to be returned.”

“Thank you, Hannibal,” Will answered, hoping his words conveyed his gratitude for everything that had occurred during the past week.

“The pleasure has been mine.” Nothing in Hannibal’s voice suggested this was untrue.

That night, Will’s dogs piled on top of one another around the fire in their joy to be reunited, and Will felt more or less like himself again. He made his own dinner with fish from his freezer. It was simple, but Will revelled in the knowledge that he caught the fish himself not terribly long ago. He wore one of his oldest, most faded flannel shirts; it smelled like his detergent and cedar. When he showered that night, he stretched his right arm up as much as he could-- which was much higher than it had been a week earlier-- and let his left hand dominate awkwardly as he washed his own hair. He only gave himself a flash of a moment to imagine they were Hannibal’s hands. 

Weeks began to slip by with unprecedented speed. Will guest lectured and started writing small pieces again. After a few articles were picked up by journals, he was offered the opportunity to teach a summer course at Quantico. He never formally resigned, and he supposed enough time had passed between his institutionalization and the new batch of students entering training. Perhaps the cogent articles were proof of his long-contested stability. He felt like time had begun to rewind to a point before the encephalitis-- before Hannibal.

Once the weather began to warm in early March, Abigail visited him every Saturday, and their fishing lessons started in earnest. Will found himself buying her fishing gear on a weekly basis, although it was unnecessary. He built a shed to store the supplies in, and he let Abigail paint it blue. While it turned out Abigail had learned how to clean fish with her father, Will usually waved her off to play with the dogs while he took over. Max and Jack had fallen in love with her during their stay. During these lazy, relaxed Saturdays, Will felt a golden glow surrounding them. Even on rainy days when they sat inside and talked or Abigail clumsily played a song on Will’s piano, sunlight permeated his life. Sunday nights were reserved for dinner with Abigail and Hannibal; Will saw the humor in their bastardization of a family dinner, but the recognition did not diminish his pleasure. 

This was the story Will Graham told himself.

Will Graham, however, was an excellent liar. He omitted the nights he cooked dinner and conversed with a version of Hannibal that did not exist except in his mind. He ignored how he found himself standing in his barn for many minutes, feet planted exactly where he had been when he took Freddie Lounds to the ground in a deathly embrace. He pushed away memories of being covered in blackening blood on an industrial-sized farm and watching Hannibal drag Mason Verger under him to tear at his throat with bared teeth. He certainly refused to acknowledge the dreams of being in Hannibal’s bathtub, bathing in hot, inky blood that Hannibal rubbed lovingly into his hair, red suds blurring his vision; when he woke from these dreams covered in sweat and burning from the inside out, he chose to attribute it to fear. He started sleeping with a towel at the foot of his bed again.

Other than the Sunday dinners, Will only saw Hannibal during their weekly appointments, which both started and ended promptly at the designated time. Hannibal had become such a significant part of Will’s life, but when their interconnectedness seemed to reach its apex, the man withdrew entirely. It was maddening, and it only fed the heat of Will’s dreams. He had made his choice, and now, Hannibal had reversed it and sent Will back to the life he rejected.

Yet, one Sunday in mid-May, the world tilted ever so slightly further on its axis. The three of them sat at Hannibal’s dining room table enjoying osso buco with braised root vegetables. Abigail seemed nervous that evening, as though she wanted to say something but could not. Halfway through the meal, she finally summoned her nerve.

“Will, there’s something you need to know.”

It had been so long now since someone had looked at him with that worried urgency. He found it unnerving coming from Abigail in particular. He raised his brows, asking her to continue. 

“I was accepted to a college. My first choice…,” she trailed off. Will waited for the rest of the news. Her tone and words did not match. “The American University of Rome.”

“I take it the American University of Rome is...in Rome,” Will flatly responded.

“Yes. I have to leave the first week of June.”

“Classes start in June?” Will was relying on logistics to carry him through the conversation while he processed what he was about to lose.

“Summer classes do. I’m just taking one, but I-- and Hannibal-- thought it would be easier for me to live in Rome a few months before school starts. Less of a shock than doing everything at once.”

Will nodded, then looked at Hannibal across the table. “How long have you known about this?”

“We visited Rome in the winter, before you were involved in Abigail’s life again. She interviewed very well.”

Will let himself seethe at Hannibal. It was easier than the alternative. 

“It would have been nice to have a warning. That’s not what you do, though, is it?”

Abigail looked surprised at Will’s vitriol and interjected, “I didn’t want him to tell you until I got my acceptance letter. I didn’t know if I was going to get in. I didn't even know if I wanted to go. But I do-- I really, really do. I’m sorry, Will.”

Will felt a pang of guilt that he had made Abigail feel bad about something she should be celebrating. She had just turned eighteen and was getting ready to move to Italy to go to the school she had apparently set her heart on. She had come so far from the day in the kitchen when Garrett Jacob Hobbs held a knife to her throat and decided that her life should end with his own. 

“No, no, Abigail. I’m happy for you,” he corrected her, almost pleading. Then, more softly, “I am so happy for you and so proud of you.” Will blinked back the water that came to his eyes. 

Abigail’s face shifted from worry to bittersweet joy. She stood to hug him as he remained seated, her arms tight around his neck. She whispered words Will couldn’t hear about how she would be back for breaks and that was when fishing was good anyway. She had streaks of silent tears when she pulled back. 

In spite of her dampened face, she said, “This is so dumb. It's not like I'm dying this time. You can visit me.” 

Will nodded. Abigail returned to her seat, and dinner continued with safe questions about what she thought she would study, living accommodations, and how much Italian she still needed to learn before she left. Usually, when Abigail went home, Will also departed. Tonight, however, he closed the door behind Abigail and walked past Hannibal, who was watching him with interest. Will poured two glasses of very good Scotch and planted himself in one of the chairs in Hannibal’s study. Hannibal followed him in and took the second glass from Will’s hand. 

“I’m sure Italy was chosen with no influence from you,” Will accused.

“We are all shaped by influences, some more visible than others. I would have supported any choice she made. I will not deny that I am pleased with her good judgment.”

“You took her from me once. Wasn’t that enough? Or are we too difficult to control if we have one another?”

Hannibal went silent. They had drunk half their glasses by the time Will spoke again. 

“How old was your sister?” He didn’t feel the need to add _when she died_. It would have been cruel, and even in this moment, he did not want to exercise cruelty upon Hannibal.

“Mischa was six when she was killed,” Hannibal answered after a pause.

“You were Mischa’s only parent,” Will stated, trying to imagine a very young Hannibal and a little girl hanging off of his hand. He imagined she would be blonde and dark-eyed like her brother. Soft and sweet where Hannibal was already made of harder, shrewder stuff.

“I was, at the end.”

“You were a child. You did everything you could.” Will spoke without letting too much emotion into his voice. He didn’t know how Mischa had died, but he was certain a boy who was not even a teenager was ill-equipped to save her. Still, Will knew he was treading hallowed ground in Hannibal’s memory palace. “ _Abigail_ has two fathers.”

Hannibal froze his face into an unreadable expression. He took a sip of Scotch, not pausing to smell the glass first, which worried Will more than his blank expression did. 

“I understand,” he finally said. His face did not warm or reveal his feelings.

“Being alone was easy. The only thing I had to worry about losing was myself,” Will tried to explain without sounding like he was justifying his anger.

“I should have encouraged Abigail to speak to you, to give you more time to prepare.”

“I would’ve liked to see her in Rome,” Will admitted. Hannibal’s iciness broke for a moment, and he looked a touch regretful. “You’ve given her a life, a future. I can’t resent you for that.”

“And you’ve given her a home,” Hannibal added. “When Abigail feels the sting of homesickness or when an unwise boy breaks her young heart, I am not the one she will call upon.”

They finally met one another’s eyes. 

“Together, we make a decent father,” Will said, his anger all but gone.

“The measure of successful parenting is what is produced and set forth into the world. We have a great probability for success, even if it is not entirely ours to claim.”

The air returned to the room as both men visibly relaxed, an understanding reached. 

“When I went to college, my dad bought a used set of weights. Put them in my bedroom. Never touched them.”

“I believe our interests are much more enduring than that.” Hannibal waited a beat before asking, “Do you often think of Mr. Tier and Ms. Lounds?”

Will felt a tiny rush of adrenaline. He licked his lips and tried to keep his face from flushing with a slow inhale. He nodded.

“When you imagine them, do you cloak yourself in shame or do you bask in your own radiance?”

Will’s breathing quickened slightly.

“You bask, I...can’t tell what I feel.”

“You don’t allow yourself to name it.”

“It’s peaceful. Quiet.”

“What is in the quiet, Will?”

“Power,” he answered with no hesitation.

Hannibal’s mouth turned up in a closed smile. He leaned forward in his chair, closer to Will. Without thinking, Will started to mirror the movement, caught himself, and rested his arms on the chair. 

“No matter what we proclaim, all of humanity shares the need to be seen. Just as it is our nature to kill, it is our nature to seek understanding. What is falling in love but allowing your beloved to see the parts you conceal from the gaze of others? It’s a frightening prospect; equally frightening is the possibility it may never occur.” Hannibal stopped, took a sip. “You saw me.”

Will flashed hot and cold, anxiety and memory battling in his nervous system. 

Was there another person alive who had _seen_ Hannibal? Will did lean forward now, his elbows resting on his knees. He examined Hannibal for a long moment. He looked at the dark warmth of his eyes, the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the full curve of his lips. A few strands of hair threatened to spill across his forehead. He tried to superimpose the image of the man from the farm on the man across from his. He had tried before and failed, but in the shadowy room with Hannibal’s eyes focused squarely on him, the two images began to align. The gleam in his eyes was the same whether he was hunting Mason Verger or flushing out the truth from Will; Will recognized that black gleam in himself. It made Will feel shaky with fear and desire. He thought of being bathed in blood and waking up glistening.

“What did you think when I split a man’s skull open on the ground? When I took flesh from Mason Verger’s neck?” Hannibal asked, seeking some clue to Will’s shuttered thoughts.

Will knew this was a genuine question, not a veiled threat. The Hannibal from his memory sat before him, blood covering his mouth and running over his white shirt. He thought about lying on concrete watching the blood around him change from red to black and back again in the shifting light. He saw the world around him darkening as warm blood pooled at his side. In his mind’s eye, his own ebony arms were the last thing left in the world slipping away from him, and he recalled the words he had spoken to himself.

“It was beautiful,” Will whispered aloud. Hannibal ran his gaze over Will’s face, the hungriness of his eyes subdued by something akin to veneration. 

Will reached his hand up to touch Hannibal. With them both leaned forward so close to one another in the chairs, he didn’t have to extend his arm far. His fingertips caressed the hair behind Hannibal’s ear in small strokes. His thumb moved from Hannibal’s bottom lip to his cheekbone. In a trembling movement, Will slid his hand to the back of Hannibal’s neck. He leaned forward further, stopping only inches from Hannibal’s face. The other man tenderly brushed a curl of hair back, then ran his hand over Will’s shoulder and down his arm; the hand came to rest on Will’s side, touching the scar from Mason Verger’s blade through his shirt. At the touch, Will inhaled sharply; as if falling in time, Hannibal breathed deeply at the reaction. Will’s thighs were on either side of Hannibal’s now, and Hannibal’s other hand fell on Will’s knee while Will’s free hand came to grasp loosely at the fabric of Hannibal’s shirt over his ribs. Will wanted to be closer still. He scanned his eyes over Hannibal’s face a final time, the streaks of blood appearing and disappearing in his sight but the same man underneath in either image. With the smallest motion, Will brought his mouth to Hannibal’s.

Will had once thought of Hannibal as his paddle. He had been wrong. Hannibal was an anchor, steadfastly tying him to the present in the face of storms looming on the horizon.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some NSFW content in this chapter. Very NSFW. I hope I didn't slaughter a sexy scene.

The kiss started almost chaste; their lips brushed across one another. They pulled back slightly to tilt their foreheads together, breathing quickly. Will wasn’t sure who pressed their mouths back together: It could have been Hannibal; it could have been him; it could have been the hand of Hannibal’s chaotic god. They pressed harder now, starting to lightly dampen one another’s lips. Will grabbed Hannibal’s shirt harder; his fist was now wrapped in it. His other hand entwined itself in Hannibal’s hair. Hannibal’s fingers dug probingly around Will’s scarred side while his other hand ran between Will’s knee and midthigh, stopping there as though hitting an invisible barrier. Hannibal darted his tongue into Will’s mouth; it felt like asking for permission, which was granted by Will’s soft yet audible exhale. Hannibal tasted like salt and Scotch with a twist of something just a bit sharp, like citrus. The idea that he was tasting Hannibal’s willingly offered flesh inspired an entirely different wave of heat, and Will worked very hard to not think once again about how badly the wires in his brain must be crossed that the taste of Hannibal’s body was arousing.

Will pulled Hannibal as close as he could in their awkward position seated across from one another. He let his hand fall from Hannibal’s hair to trail down his neck and over his shoulders. The muscle there was solid and built from years of use. They continued kissing, tasting, probing until Will found his fingers circling the button on Hannibal’s shirt. If having his hair washed had melted him into blank relaxation, their current activity inspired a different kind of mental quiet-- one produced by his physical senses crying out louder than his brain could think. Recognizing this, Will forced himself back out of his body and into his mind; it was physically painful to remove his hands from Hannibal’s shirt and withdraw from the deep kiss. He let their lips touch as long as he could as the rest of his body pulled back. 

Will took in Hannibal’s state: His dark eyes were blackened by huge pupils, his lips were reddened and glistened, and he looked the tiniest bit ruffled due to his now-wrinkled shirt and tousled hair. He was hungry and reverent; monster and man. Will wanted to remember this moment for the rest of his life. He wanted this image of Hannibal to be the only thing his mind allowed room for. He knew most of this feeling came from the physiological effects of arousal, but knowing this information didn’t make it feel any less true. Will wondered how he looked-- how he looked in Hannibal’s eyes, to be specific.

He tried to steady his breathing and keep his body from revolting to seek Hannibal’s body again.

“I need to go.”

It wasn’t a question; it was a declaration, albeit an agonizing one. Hannibal looked simultaneously surprised and unsurprised at that, and Will could see Hannibal’s expression becoming guarded. Seeing Hannibal look at him through hardened eyes was more painful than physically separating had been. 

“I can’t always tell if my thoughts are my own when you’re around,” he added weakly. This did nothing to change Hannibal’s mask of detachment.

Will stook and exited the study without looking back; he walked out of the house quickly, and the only sound was his shoes pounding the floor in his hurry. He was glad Hannibal didn’t try to stop him, didn’t call out for him. He would have stayed.

When Will got out of the Baltimore traffic onto flat, dull interstate, he replayed the moment over and over again in his mind. His chest tightened and warmed at the memory of the kiss and sunk when he recalled Hannibal’s face during his retreat. By the time he was halfway home, Will was properly angry-- with whom he wasn’t sure-- and having a conversation with himself in the emptiness of his car. He had done this before when he was much younger and struggling to deal with the lightspeed, full-color associations of his mind and tendency to clothe himself in the skins of others. 

“What are you doing?” he pleaded aloud with himself. “You are Will Graham. You work for the FBI, kind of.”

_My pound of flesh sits in a freezer below Hannibal’s house._

“Dr. Lecter risked your life and your sanity. You were imprisoned for his actions.”

_I asked a psychopath to kill Hannibal. It almost worked. He released me._

“He is _curious_ what will happen if he places you in novel situations. He sent a delusional man through your living room window.”

_It was a gift. I accepted it._

“You are a shiny new instrument to lay beside his scalpel. He wants to own you, until he doesn’t. You won’t survive it.”

_Even Steven. He could have let me die, but he saved my life. It’s already borrowed time. He let me see him. Bathed in radiance._

“Hannibal Lecter defies explanation. The only assurance is he will do whatever he finds necessary to isolate you and make you dependent on him, and when he is finished with you, he will kill you.”

_He could have let me die by Mason Verger’s blade. He could have sent me home to Wolf Trap when I demanded to leave the hospital. Wouldn’t that have satisfied him-- me bleeding out on my living room floor because of my own hubris? He could have drowned me in his bathtub any number of times._

Will felt a small shudder run down his neck at the memory of warm water and minty soap under skilled hands.

“Whatever aspect of his pathology we can determine does not allow for...companionship. His superiority does not allow equality.”

_”What is falling in love but allowing your beloved to see the parts you conceal from the gaze of others?” He doesn’t need companionship. He has found something far more motivating._

“Hannibal Lecter does not love anything but toying with the world and congratulating himself on his brilliance at doing so.”

_You are, quite literally, arguing with yourself, Will. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already believe._

Will pounded the steering wheel once with his fist and dismissed the voice from his thoughts.

That night, Will’s dogs stayed closer than usual to him, detecting something amiss. Buster laid his entire body across his feet as Will nursed a whiskey on the front porch, and Max and Jack crowded his sides. By the time Will was at the bottom of his second glass, he had started to feel more cohesive; he wasn’t arguing with himself so much as alternating between exhilaration and feeble guilt. He used to be very good at feeling guilty. He wondered when the emotion had started to get more difficult to conjure. Perhaps it faded in proportion to his attachment to those people who shined judgment into every dark corner. _Jack. Alana. Special Agent Will Graham._

He fell asleep by 10 PM, a vague plan having materialized in his mind. 

He woke before dawn. Nervous energy pushed his eyes open and his limbs into motion. He fed the dogs, let them out to stretch and relieve themselves, and made sure they had full water bowls. He showered and dressed in record time. He had somewhere to be.

By 7:00 AM, he was on Hannibal’s doorstep once again. Hannibal opened the door and looked as if he had expected to see him, though Will was beginning to think this expression truly meant nothing. Hannibal stepped aside and let him through the door with an extension of his hand toward the main house. It was so odd to see Hannibal in sleeping clothes, although the ridiculous black robe trimmed with gold thread strangely normalized the situation somewhat. Running on adrenaline and contained heat, Will found himself tempted to brush back the loose locks that fell over Hannibal’s face. It was the only sign he had been sleeping. 

“Coffee?” Hannibal asked politely. Will nodded a “yes.”

Their positions reminded Will so much of the morning he had come to Hannibal’s home distressed by his sleepwalking and deteriorating mind. Yet, Hannibal hadn’t looked at him with such a closed expression then, and Will hadn’t watched Hannibal’s every movement like he was stalking prey. Identically different. 

“What is troubling you this morning, Will? Not sleepwalking again, I hope.” 

Will couldn’t stand the politeness in Hannibal’s words. There was nothing polite between them right now. 

“Last night,” Will began in the calmest voice he could affect, “I shouldn’t have left like that.” 

Hannibal ceased all motion at the bluntness and stared at Will. There was to be no dancing toward the truth today. “You are not known for your traditional adherence to social niceties.”

“Not because it was _rude_ ,” Will sighed. “It wasn’t fair. I really don’t even think you deserve fairness, but we’re so far from where we started. I don’t even know how I got here from where I was.”

Hannibal’s jaw unclenched, and his brows softened slightly. This was an honest conversation, and Hannibal generally appreciated honesty from Will.

“You have seen your potential, and your Becoming looms just out of grasp. I have changed you.”

“And I have changed you.”

Hannibal tensed again for a moment but released it. 

“It’s an uncomfortable thought. My compassion for you is inconvenient.”

“If you're partial to beef products it is inconvenient to be compassionate towards a cow,” Will responded not quite jokingly. Hannibal smiled in response. Will felt himself relax in kind at the sight. “What happens when your compassion for me deteriorates?”

Hannibal studied him, finding the real question. “I will not kill you.”

“Why?” Will immediately shot back. 

“The world is a far, far more interesting place with you in it.”

“Is that the only reason?” Will pushed. 

Hannibal swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath the open collar of his pajamas. He looked down and stayed very still for many seconds. 

“Love. You’re asking about love, Will?” Hannibal finally responded, still not looking at him.

“Am I? You said that I saw you.”

“I let you see me, and you did. By seeing me, you know me.”

“Has anyone ever _seen_ you before?”

Hannibal half-grimaced and gave his head a single, slow shake. “I would not allow it.”

Will thought about this, his hand splayed on the cool countertop.

“It was a gift,” Will finally concluded.

“A gift for you alone.” Hannibal paused. “It’s intoxicating, being seen. I find myself wondering how much you know-- and don’t. What I have told you? What has your incredible mind gleaned?” Hannibal was smiling close-lipped now, but Will thought it was only to himself. “To your original question, yes, this is my love.”

Will’s plan had only taken him so far. This was the furthest boundary of it. A small part of him had hoped Hannibal would laugh him out of his home for his arrogance or even try to kill him. Will could handle those responses much more easily than the truth. 

“I appreciate your gift, Hannibal.”

“A gift should be given with no eye toward reciprocity. You cannot control with respect to whom you fall in love,” Hannibal said in a tone that Will could almost read as relief. 

“I don’t know what I feel.”

Light and increasingly more cheerful, Hannibal resumed making the coffee and replied, “There is no requirement of you. It is delightful and terrible.” 

Will pondered their conversation without speaking as Hannibal finished and brought a mug to him. Will couldn’t tell if love meant the same thing to Hannibal that it did to other people; he didn’t think it was possible that it could. Yet, Hannibal had loved his sister and presumably his parents. He had felt that selfless affection before. Will believed that Hannibal truly did not expect him to provide anything in return, save friendship and philosophical sparring, of course. When Hannibal had placed the mug on the counter, Will reached out and caught his wrist. 

“Will--,” but he was cut off.

“Hannibal, I usually don’t know how I feel. That’s...my life. I’ve gotten better, a little. I won’t thank you for that--”

Hannibal looked genuinely caught off-guard by his words and said, “It’s not my doing.” 

“--but I won’t lie to you. We agreed to that,” Will said and took a breath before continuing. “I know I enjoy your company for some godforsaken reason. I know I missed you when we weren’t talking outside of our session and Abigail. Jesus, I know the idea of you in a cage makes me feel sick now. And I know I want to touch you,” Will finished, barely audible. He met Hannibal’s eyes and asked, “Is that enough?”

Hannibal did not answer aloud. He gingerly cupped the side of Will’s face. His other hand wrapped loosely around Will’s neck under his ear. Will did not think about how many necks had been crushed under those hands; he leaned into the touch. Will stepped forward and put his mouth on the other man’s, the nervous energy that had driven him to Hannibal’s kitchen today surging. Will felt like Hannibal was savoring him, moving his lips slowly and stroking his tongue with short, soft movements. After all of the anticipation and doubt, Will struggled to leash his hunger for Hannibal’s touch. He found himself wrapping his arms around Hannibal tightly, pressing their bodies together. When Hannibal exhaled sharply at the full-body contact, Will only clutched more tightly. Every gasp Hannibal would offer him was a breath of oxygen to fuel Will’s growing fire. His hands had already undone Hannibal’s robe belt when he felt Hannibal’s mouth move along his jaw in small, nipping kisses. By the time he made it behind Will’s ear, Will could hear himself taking in shaky breaths. 

Will grabbed Hannibal loosely the the lapels of his robe and pulled him toward the study, their mouths finding one another again as they slowly made their way to the room. He wasn’t sure where the boundary was, but he didn’t think Hannibal would approve of his kitchen being the testing ground. The shadowy study felt more appropriate yet entirely more dangerous. 

In the darkened room, Will pulled Hannibal’s robe off fully and draped it over a chair. Will’s hands wandered over Hannibal’s more exposed body, tracing and kneading, grabbing with firm fingertips and stroking with long brushes. But he yearned to touch skin. He needed to feel the realness, the warmth. Hannibal’s hands had untucked Will’s shirt and found their way to the sensitive skin of his lower back. They massaged there while Hannibal resumed his nipping pathway down Will’s neck to his collarbone. Hannibal thumbed the top button of Will’s shirt but did not move to undo it. Will took Hannibal’s hand into his own and pulled it to his mouth in a breathy kiss. Into Hannibal’s palm, he whispered, “I want to feel your skin.” 

Will’s demand shook off some of Hannibal’s carefulness. He undid the first two buttons of Will’s shirt and let his biting kisses follow Will’s clavicle. Another two buttons, and he was able to suck on the sensitive tendon leading from neck to shoulder. 

“Ground,” Will murmured into his hair. Hannibal paused for a moment at that, and Will almost rolled his eyes heavenward at Hannibal’s momentary reluctance to get on the floor. “Please,” Will added, and their movements resumed. 

Sitting on the ground, they made quick work of each other’s shirts. Will ran a hand down the center of Hannibal’s chest, the soft hair tickling his wandering fingers-- so much more here than on his own chest. There was so much more of Hannibal, period. He was lean, but his shoulders seemed expansive as they came to lay side-by-side on the ground. Will imagined those shoulders tightening and flexing as Hannibal bent Mason Verger’s body into a bow. He was defined but solid, not hard. Will brought his mouth to Hannibal’s sternum and worked his way around the defined pectoral muscle, mimicking Hannibal’s nips. The other man stroked his hair as he moved. He looked down with heavily hooded eyes. Will let his tongue graze the other man’s nipple as he came back to meet Hannibal’s mouth. 

Hannibal’s hands moved down Will’s body and rested on his belt. Will froze, and Hannibal’s gaze immediately flickered upward to meet Will’s. Will tried to conceal his worry, but he was breathless and flushed and so far from in control of his reactions. 

“This is new for me. Not _all_ of this, but--”

“Another man,” Hannibal supplied, relief in his face. He had probably thought Will was going to withdraw again.

“Yes. And it’s been a while. Long while…,” Will trailed off, suddenly embarrassed. Hannibal smiled and started a new trail of small kisses, this time toothless, from Will’s elbow to his shoulder. 

Between kisses, he spoke, “Have we chosen to follow prescriptive methods for any other undertaking of our lives? My patience is endless, where you are concerned. I would have had you for breakfast if it wasn’t.” Hannibal punctuated this last thought with a gentle nip at Will’s shoulder. 

Will chuckled once in spite of himself, nerves settling. He must be unspeakably damaged to find that statement comforting.

Hannibal reached Will’s ear finally and whispered, “You said you wanted to touch me, Will. Please, just let me touch you.”

Will’s body processed this far faster than his brain. His face reddened, and he hardened painfully. Hannibal kissed him, tongue more insistent but still massaging. Hannibal’s hands unbuckled Will’s belt, and he exhaled into Hannibal’s mouth more sharply than he had meant to. When their mouths returned, Will felt Hannibal smiling under his lips. He wanted to hit him, but he also didn’t want to stop the fingers that were now undoing his button and zipper. Will was briefly mortified that Hannibal would feel him and know he had sparked such arousal. This concern was swiftly replaced by renewed hunger as Hannibal’s hand ran along the outside of Will’s boxers. He hazarded a glance at Hannibal’s face and found intensely focused desire. His eyes were fixed on his work between them. When Hannibal worked Will’s boxers and pants down far enough to release him, Will couldn’t allow himself to look anywhere but Hannibal’s hands. Hannibal brought one hand to his mouth and pulled it away damp with his saliva. Two damp fingers stroked the underside of Will’s length, and he released a shuddering breath. He was trying very hard not to move his hips into Hannibal’s hand. Hannibal stroked languidly until Will felt himself beginning to visibly squirm. Of course Hannibal would make him wait until he was ready to beg for more contact. 

Hannibal wetted his hand with saliva once more. As his hand finally wrapped around Will, he whispered, “You always surprise me, Will.”

A groan came from deep within his chest when Hannibal’s hand finally began to move in a firm, slow rhythm. He found himself panting and grabbing onto Hannibal’s shoulder with the hand not curled under his head. It was becoming increasingly more difficult not to let his hips move, but Will didn’t want to break the spell. As if reading his mind-- more likely, reading his twitching legs-- Hannibal said, “You need not remain still.”

Permission finally granted, Will thrust into the damp hand between them. A sigh bordering on a moan escaped his lips, and Hannibal returned to the reddened splotches he had left on Will’s neck earlier. When he reached a spot above Will’s collarbone and below the line of his shoulder, Will thrust harder. Hannibal’s kissing turned to sucking, teeth brushing the area. It would bruise. Will was very close. Hannibal felt his hardness and the slickness around his head. He pushed his forehead against Will’s, forcing their eyes to meet and minutely tightened the circle of his hand. Will saw himself reflected in Hannibal’s gleaming eyes: Sheening with sweat, desperate, wild. Hannibal’s expression told Will that nothing else existed in the world at the moment-- perhaps ever-- but the two of them. He looked fierce and bordering on animal. The image of Hannibal’s mouth covered in blood, eyes as intense and focused as they were now, fluttered across Will’s field of vision, and he felt his pleasure reach the point of almost pain as he climaxed with Hannibal’s warm hand rhythmically bringing him to his undoing. 

When he was catching his breath, Hannibal kissed his head and inhaled deeply in his hair. Will wondered what unique note was added by his orgasm, but he couldn’t be bothered to ask. 

“I’ll get towels,” Hannibal said as he sat up.

“Stay,” Will asked weakly, breath still evening out. 

Hannibal laid back down beside him, and they stared at one another. They didn’t search or seek answers; they existed for just a moment in their dark world, the two of them the only inhabitants.

A short while later, when they both had pulled themselves back to reality and cleaned up, Hannibal cancelled his early afternoon appointments and made them lunch. Will had worried he would feel shame or embarrassment or even anger, but he sat in Hannibal’s kitchen mostly sleepy and hungry. Will wondered if this was the best he would ever feel. A thought dawned on him far too late.

“Hannibal,” he said, getting the man’s attention. “I’m sorry I didn’t…” Will didn’t know how to finish his thought without Hannibal admonishing him for vulgarity.

“Will, I asked you to let me touch you. You allowed me to do so. Don’t concern yourself with anything further.”

Will did feel a sting of guilt at that. He had been so full of white hot anxiety and want, both of which had come crashing down in spectacular fashion. Maybe, Will admitted to himself, he had avoided it, not because he was suddenly hypocritically squeamish or because he wanted to punish Hannibal. It was just too much. He needed a little more time before he saw Hannibal fully released to something primal. He had wanted to put his hands and mouth all over Hannibal’s body, but he wasn’t quite ready for it. What he certainly did not want was to make Hannibal feel that he needed to behave a certain way to avoid sending Will retreating back to Wolf Trap. 

“Okay,” Will answered.

“You’re much more agreeable like this.”

Will palmed his face, and Hannibal failed to contain a satisfied smile.

Lunch passed without event, both men quiet but content. It was their first meal without Abigail present in many weeks. He supposed that was something they would have to grow accustomed to again. He followed this train of thought to its natural conclusion, and when Will was preparing to leave, he let curiosity get the better of him.

“What will you do when Abigail’s gone?”

Hannibal considered this. “You’ve advised against a weight room.”

“You haven’t killed in months. That I know of, at least.”

“I haven’t. Killing is not a compulsion for me as it has been for so many prolific serial killers. No voices pay me a visit at night and command me to claim flesh.”

“But it’s not something you can live without.”

“Could I live without it? Yes, but I would suffer for it. Are you asking me to stop?”

“No,” Will quickly corrected him. “I’m asking...if it’s something you want to share.”

Hannibal looked at him with what Will was coming to identify as Hannibal’s version of love. “I would be very happy if you chose to accompany me. Although, I believe we’ll have differing opinions on whom to invite to the table.”

Will knew this was true. He responded, “Would you be willing to try something different?” The _for me_ went unspoken.

“Variety is the spice of life,” Hannibal intoned. 

At Hannibal’s door, Will kissed him again, as much a lingering good-bye as an affirmation that he had not used Hannibal to enact a shameful fantasy that he would go home and drive himself mad analyzing. He kissed him in the light of day to show that he was not hiding Hannibal in a dark corner of his soul, only to be swept out when Jack or Alana came searching with a flashlight.

The drive back to Wolf Trap was quiet. Will listened to the radio.


	11. Chapter 11

When Will returned home, he felt as though he’d been gone a very long time, although it had been only six or seven hours. So much had occurred within that short span. Will resolved to distract himself. He began working on his presentation for tomorrow’s seminar; he was speaking to first-year students about the evolution of forensic science, a fairly easy and, frankly, dull topic. Still, he had been doing good work lately, and he didn’t want to backslide into the void he had found himself in following his stay at the BSHCI. 

He got a good two hours of forced concentration in before he surmised his presentation was as good as it was going to get and took a walk with his dogs. It was breezy, probably one of the last cooler late spring days before summer came in earnest. Virginia would get hot, but it was nothing compared to the swampy summers spent in New Orleans. Will remembered a fine film of humidity and sweat sticking to him all day and night in the depths of summertime. The dogs bounded around him happily. It was easy to let his mind wander between tossing sticks and navigating well-trodden root systems. He gave himself permission to think of Hannibal. When the name was summoned-- a magical curse-- a series of images flickered through his mind like a manic slideshow on loop: Hannibal cooking with his sleeves rolled, Hannibal handing him a set of keys, Hannibal holding Randall Tier’s jaw, Hannibal in his hospital room, Hannibal making blood spurt from Mason Verger’s neck, Hannibal reaching between them and…

Winston made a snuffling noise. Will realized he was standing still and had been for a little while. He looked Winston in the eye and said, “I’m sorry, boy. Oxytocin is a hell of a drug.”

He was more mindful after that, and the rest of the walk passed without event. When the sun set, Will spent another evening on his porch, whiskey glass in hand. He sipped this glass leisurely compared to last night’s mindless gulps. He was concerned about a lot of things. There was the obvious, which he had already devoted an incredible amount of mental space to dissecting. There was also the not-as-obvious. He wasn’t joking when he told Winston that oxytocin was responsible for his spacey behavior. Will knew a great deal about the mind and biochemical reactions. He had been honest when he told Hannibal it had been a while since he was touched so intimately; he worried what effect that would have on his ability to think clearly now that touch seemed to be returning to his life. What would his brain do with the sudden flood of now-foreign hormones? When he had kissed Alana, he drove over an hour to panickedly examine it in Hannibal’s kitchen, and he had sprinted past kissing this morning. He needed to be cautious; he was dealing with a lion, not a housecat. 

Will slept hard that night, dreams of darkened floors and whispered words tying him to unconsciousness. He woke up damp and uniquely uncomfortable; he felt not unlike a teenager. He took a frigid shower, ate a bowl of cereal, cared for his dogs, and left for Quantico. By the time Will arrived, he felt more or less focused on his work again. The lecture was, as Will had expected, both dull and easy to navigate; he couldn’t help but take notice of the students’ chattering before the class started, though. His criminal record seemed to precede him. If nothing else, it made for an especially rapt audience. The normal professor, whom Will had taught with prior to his departure, thanked him at the end and noted how engaged his students were. He had always been a tad oblivious to social cues-- as if Will was one to judge-- but he meant it as a compliment. 

Will didn’t have anything immediately pressing waiting for him at home. He had a late afternoon call with a journal editor about possibly writing an evaluative article on a recent, controversial study of the possible link between obsessive-compulsive disorder and antisocial personality disorders with presentation of violence. Will strongly disagreed with the researchers’ methods and conclusions, and he found the prospect invigorating-- much more intriguing than presenting a glorified history lesson. Still, he felt good, and being at Quantico felt normal. He made his way to the cafeteria to grab a cup of coffee and a stale muffin. He purposefully didn’t think about how disapproving Hannibal would be if he knew Will’s meals for the day thus far consisted entirely of processed grains, sugar, and caffeine. 

Will sat by a window with his coffee and blueberry muffin and flipped through a newspaper someone left on the table. After a few minutes, a person cleared her throat; Alana Bloom stood behind the chair opposite him. She truly did look beautiful. Her dark hair fell in shining curls, and the pink in her cheeks popped against the wine-red wrap dress she wore. Sitting at a table in the cafeteria with Alana standing across from him, Will felt transported in time. 

“May I?” Alana asked finally.

“Oh, yeah. Help yourself.”

“I heard you’ve been making the rounds, guest lecturing, writing. I read your piece on early psychosis-- it was great.” Alana sounded friendly and bright, so different from their last meeting.

“Thanks. You would’ve done better. It’s within your purview more than mine.” Will meant what he said.

“But you had a great perspective to offer. Field work makes for a fascinating read. Don’t be modest, Will.”

Will smiled at her genuinely. This was the Alana he knew. He felt guilty for his part in causing her pain. 

“I’m really glad to see you here,” she continued. “You look good. The time off has agreed with you.”

“It’s amazing what you can accomplish when your brain isn’t boiling.”

Alana looked a bit saddened at this reminder, and Will regretted his comment.

“There are a lot of ways to take care of yourself. Making sure your brain isn’t boiling is one of them,” she bounded back. Will remembered why he had found her so kissable in their early, professionally-oriented friendship.

“That’s one box I can check. Now, at least.”

They simply smiled at one another for a moment, and Will recalled what it was like to have a friend who lived a normal, relatively simple life. 

“Are you still going to therapy?” The words _with Hannibal_ hung heavily between them.

“I am. With Hannibal still,” Will supplied to save Alana from having to ask.

Alana nodded but looked more serious. 

“You’ve already heard my sermon, so I won’t repeat it. You look well, and you don’t need my help making choices. I just worry,” Alana paused, seeming to cut herself short. She put her hands over Will’s in a friendly touch and continued, “Sometimes I wonder if you were right, if I should have believed you. I don’t even know if you believe what you said anymore, but I feel like I was blinded for weeks.”

“You’ve known Hannibal for a long time,” Will said as neutrally as he could. 

“I’m not ashamed we were romantically involved. I mean, he wasn’t my...boyfriend? God, do adults have ‘boyfriends’? I can’t imagine anyone calling Hannibal that.”

Will honestly couldn’t either, and he laughed with her at the idea. This had the effect of disarming her more. 

“But we were...sleeping together, and I’m not too proud to admit I may have let that cloud my judgment. Sometimes I wonder if it was intentional. That sounds horrible, but I’ve thought a lot lately about how unlike Hannibal the whole situation was. I’ve never known him to get involved with colleagues-- or anyone, for that matter-- and I certainly would never have thought he’d just disappear from my life with no explanation,” Alana rambled, her emotions controlled but apparent in the edges of her voice. “What I mean by all this is, I don’t believe I knew him as well as I thought. Maybe there were other things I didn’t see. I’m sorry, Will.”

The duality inherent in so much of Will’s life appeared again, one part of him feeling euphoric that Alana finally believed him while the other wanted to set fire to Hannibal’s bed because it had ever held another person. Will breathed, held his thoughtful face to not reveal his feelings, and calmed himself. 

“I appreciate that, Alana. Better late than never.”

Alana nodded and took a deep breath in and out, composing herself. She checked her watch.

“I have a meeting in a few minutes, but I’m really glad we ran into each other. I’ve missed you...and your dogs.” She laughed nervously at her admission.

“They miss you, too, Alana. Bring Applesauce around some time this summer.”

“Will do. Ugh, I have to go. I wish I could stay,” she said with a smile that Will returned. Her smile faded, though, as she added, “I shouldn’t tell you this, but Mason Verger has reached out to me. He wants me to be his psychiatrist.”

Will’s eyebrows raised in authentic surprise. He had chosen not to check in on Mason Verger’s recovery, but if he was soliciting therapists, he must still have his faculties about him. Will was confident his choice of Alana Bloom was no accident. 

“Oh,” Will said dumbly. He tried again, “I mean, I’m sure he must be fascinating to work with...therapeutically.”

Alana tried to read his expression but couldn’t quite crack it. 

“We’ve only met once so far, but...he’s something,” she responded, then paused for Will to speak. He remained silent. She stood, collected her bag, and said, “Okay, now I really have to go. See you around, Will.”

“Alana-- be careful. With Mason, I mean. Just be careful.”

Alana gave Will a small grin and shot back, “Will, aren’t I always?”

She disappeared, heels clicking on the cafeteria tiles as she made her way into the recesses of the building. Will folded the newspaper and took his lukewarm coffee with him to his car; he was now acutely aware that he had not traveled to some point in the not-so-distant past. 

After his afternoon phone meeting ended, Will felt restless. The thought of Alana working with Mason Verger disgusted him in ways he couldn’t define. He worried about Alana’s safety, yes, but he also worried about her mental state. He and Hannibal had put her in such a dark place over the winter; he couldn’t imagine what Mason Verger would do. He recalled Margot revealing her brother’s sins to him, and the thought of Alana with a broken arm or being held captive with blackmail made him unspeakably angry. Will also had the truly tormenting image of Hannibal and Alana wrapped up in sheets together, twisting and moaning, sweat-slicked and passionate in one another’s arms. He had known of Alana’s physical relationship with Hannibal, of course, but hearing Alana discuss it-- especially so soon after he had allowed himself to acknowledge and act upon his own physical desires-- was another matter entirely. Compounding it further was the fact that Alana was entirely correct in asserting that Hannibal had kept her blinded by their relationship; Will couldn’t help asking if that was what Hannibal intended for him. He doubted it, but the thought persisted in the edges of his consciousness. 

Will ended up calling Abigail for an impromptu fishing session. She had a little over a week left in the United States, and the lengthening summer days would provide them with sunlight past 8 P.M. She readily agreed and made her way eagerly in the car that belonged to Grace Anderson. Will packed a few peanut butter sandwiches and bottles of water. They would eat by the stream tonight to maximize their time. 

Abigail had a very good day in the stream; Will came home almost empty-handed with the slightest hint of red from the sun across the bridge of his nose. They made plans to meet again on Saturday-- their last fishing day before she left. Will cleaned the fish and packed them in ice for her to take, a reminder of their fun during her final days knocking around the seaside home. Will had kept her longer than he intended, so he reminded her twice as she was leaving to please call him when she got home safely. She rolled her eyes but agreed with a grin. 

Will tucked their gear back into the blue shed, already aware that the structure would be a painful reminder of Abigail once she was gone. He washed the smell of fish from him and gave the dogs one last run around the yard. Right before he went to bed, his phone lit up with a message from Abigail. She had simply sent, “Alive.” With the knowledge Abigail was safely tucked away, Will collapsed into bed, not even bothering to shoo Winston off. 

He dreamed of a stream; he, Abigail, and Alana sat next to it, eating PBJs and laughing at a joke he never quite heard. Once, the black, feathered stag from his nightmares crossed the stream far away. It didn’t attempt to join them, nor did it antagonize them. It stayed in the forest, Will aware of its presence but unbothered. 

Wednesdays were his session with Hannibal. Will awoke from his unusually pleasant dream with a start, this thought already weighing on his mind. It was useless to try to prepare for or predict what Hannibal would say, so Will took his laptop outside and spent most of the day on his porch working on his new article and the syllabus for his summer course. The dogs spent the time playing in the yard and sleeping in the late-May sun. The day passed more quickly than he thought it would. By the time he collected the dogs to come inside, they were worn and went straight to their beds to curl up. 

Will arrived at Hannibal’s office a few minutes early. He told himself he wasn’t nervous enough times he’d started to believe it. At 7:30 P.M. exactly, the door opened, and Hannibal loomed in the doorway. He looked as polished and composed as ever in a slate-gray, three-piece plaid suit, light blue collared shirt, and double-Windsor knotted, gray and purple tie. He looked so removed from how Will last recalled seeing him, and Will was both shaken by and grateful for that fact. 

“Good evening, Will,” Hannibal politely greeted. 

They took their normal seats across from one another in Hannibal’s office. It was excruciating. 

“Is there anything in particular you’d like to discuss this evening?” Hannibal asked, truly posing as a very serious therapist who in no way had spent time rolling around on his study floor with his patient only two days earlier. 

“I saw Alana Bloom yesterday.”

Hannibal titled his head slightly. “How is Dr. Bloom?”

“She’s well,” Will said as he rose to pace the office. He hadn’t felt compelled to do so in many weeks, but he couldn’t stop moving now. “Very well, in fact. Mason Verger’s asked her to be his psychiatrist.”

Hannibal tented his fingers and looked thoughtfully downward. 

“If Mason truly wished to better himself, Alana would do a fine job.”

“Mason Verger wishes to have our heads on stakes outside of his farm. Alana is a strategy.”

“Yes, but both Mason and Alana are outside our spheres of influence now. Mason isn’t well enough to fully enjoy the spectacle of seeing our heads as his lawn ornaments. His threat is not yet present.”

“It isn’t a problem until it is? That doesn’t sound very much like you, Dr. Lecter. I thought your sphere of influence was infinite,” Will spat, feeling antagonistic. Circling Hannibal’s office, picking up books and trinkets and putting them back down, he once again had an eerie feeling that he’d somehow gone backward in time. 

“I have the luxury of choosing how far my influence extends, as do you.”

Hannibal’s unflappable self-possession made Will want to break something just to get a reaction. He wondered if this was how Mason had felt right before he took a knife to Hannibal’s chair. It was a dangerous train of thought. They passed a few more moments in silence, Will circling, until Hannibal addressed him again.

“Will, would you humor me and sit for just a moment?”

Will worked very hard to keep his mouth shut as he came to stand behind his normal chair. He would come closer, but he wouldn’t sit. Hannibal saw this, exhaled harder than normal, and let the ends of his mouth turn in a small, close-lipped grin, as though Will were utterly exasperating and also terribly endearing. Will seethed in silence.

“I have something for you.”

Will looked at him warily. Hannibal lifted a thin manila folder off of the table beside him. He stood, walked to Will, and handed him the beige folder. Will flipped it open. The first page was a contact sheet for a Dr. Martin Allgood, another local psychiatrist. Will furrowed his brow and glanced at Hannibal before returning to the pages. The documents under the contact information were pages upon pages of neatly scripted notes in Hannibal’s hand. Will realized they were Hannibal’s notes on him. They dated back to their very first meeting, when Hannibal rubber-stamped Will for field work; the most recent set of notes was from just a week ago. 

“I’m referring you to Dr. Allgood. Our relationship has reached more than tenebrous territory, ethically speaking.”

“ _Ethically?_ ” Will echoed, incredulous. 

“You may do with the referral-- and the notes-- what you wish.”

“I’m not calling Dr. Allgood or any other psychiatrist.”

“I didn’t suspect you would. I had to offer.”

“So you would be ethically unimpeachable,” Will fired back and removed the contact sheet from the folder. Hannibal sighed, and Will had a strong suspicion he was acting at least a smidge intolerable in that moment. Hannibal deserved whatever Will provided him, of course, but he still didn’t relish the thought. “Thank you for these,” he added roughly, shaking the folder. 

“They’re yours. I’ve forgone my right to them,” Hannibal walked around Will to his desk. He leaned against it casually but studied Will with clear eyes. “Having a relationship of equals rates rather highly for you. Most people claim this, but in practice, their actions betray them. But not you, Will.”

If he had begun to regret his harshness toward Hannibal before, he certainly felt no better now. He came to half-sit on Hannibal’s desk next to the man. He put the folder down next to him. The mental image of it going up in flames was delicious. 

“We haven’t always been therapist and patient,” Will reminded him.

“No, we have not. Our discussions have always proven valuable to me...even when they are exercises of forbearance.” 

Will’s mouth twisted into a faint smile at the gentle prod. 

“You should not doubt that I find you fascinating. I would take every opportunity you offer to immerse myself in your mind as deeply as you would have me go.” The sincerity had returned to Hannibal’s voice, encouraging Will.

“So, what are you doing every Wednesday night at 7:30 now that you no longer have an appointment?”

“I suppose I have a vacancy. A rare blank space in my schedule. Would you like to resume our discussions, Will?”

They both had small smiles now, Will’s aggressive energy expended and Hannibal’s coldness warmed. 

“I’d like that, Hannibal.”

They sat in companionable quiet for a long time. 

“Your nose is almost sunburnt. Fishing?” Hannibal inquired.

“Yesterday, with Abigail,” Will replied, watching Hannibal’s eyes soften at the mention. “She was the only one catching, though. I was proud of her. I’ll miss having her around.”

“As will I. We should plan a trip to Italy, perhaps in the fall when your summer course has finished. Rome, Palermo, Florence...there’s much I’d like to show you.”

The idea held more than a little allure for Will, but he had trouble picturing it as a reality instead of a flight of fancy. Hannibal’s world was so different from his own, and yet they were now intersecting. 

“I would like that,” Will responded. “I would like to see the places in your mind palace.”

Hannibal touched his back, just below the shoulder blades. It wasn’t romantic or erotic, though Will’s body was somewhat more confused than his mind on that point. 

“We’ll do that, then. You can see the rooms I have built, and you can build new ones of your own. Perhaps, rest stops as you travel along your stream.” 

Will could see it clearly: His pristine stream winding through forest, untouched cabins dotting the coastline. Inside each one, a room, as grand or simple as he wished. He wondered how many of those doors he’d open and find Hannibal sitting inside, drawing or reading a book as he waited for him. The thought warmed Will’s chest and finished deflating his earlier indignation. He leaned into the arm resting on his back. Hannibal opened his embrace wider, and they sat together, half-holding one another, until the hour was over.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more NSFW-ness. The remaining chapters are more plot-heavy, but I believe any sexual contact between them early on in their relationship is important from a character development perspective. Also, I feel bad for them and just want them to have some fun once in a while. THANK YOU x100 to everyone who has commented!

The first Saturday after Abigail left was obscenely sunny. Will hoped for rain, but the universe did not seem any more inclined to acquiesce to his wants now than it had in the past. He rattled around his house, half-heartedly cleaning. Two days earlier, Hannibal had taken Abigail to the airport and dropped her off in the departures traffic lane. He had arranged for a woman to pick Abigail up at her final destination and act as her guide for her first week abroad. Will couldn’t imagine how much money Hannibal had spent on this entire undertaking, but he had to admit he was tremendously comforted by the idea of Abigail having someone present to welcome and watch over her. He would have preferred Hannibal accompany her to Rome, but this had turned out to be an odd sticking point for the other man. Hannibal strongly believed Abigail would do better sent forth on her own-- that his presence would rob her of some sense of independence. Will stored this away in his mental catalog as a clue to the mysteries of Hannibal’s early life and eventually let it go.

The silence of the house was stifling, and Will noticed his dogs-- especially Max and Jack-- looking around curiously, as if they, too, were waiting for Abigail to pull up the driveway any moment. By noon, Will had finished his laundry and dishes, changed his sheets, mopped, and even vacuumed the dog beds and laid them on the end of his porch to air out in the sun. He kept the dogs and their belongings fairly tidy, but he acknowledged that a little bit of fur and mess was a part of his life. They were more than worth the trouble. 

At 1:00, Will gave up and called Hannibal. 

_“Hello?”_ Hannibal’s familiar voice rang through the line.

“Hey. It’s...me. Will,” he finished awkwardly. He had never enjoyed phone calls. A small chuckle came from Hannibal’s end. “What are you doing today?”

Hannibal took a deep inhale and seemed to be thinking. Will imagined him whipping out a leather-bound planner.

_“To be brutally honest, I’m indulging in a display of dazzling melancholy.”_

Will couldn’t help but smile at that, even though Hannibal couldn’t see it. 

“Would you be interested in indulging in mutual self-pity instead?”

Hannibal paused only a moment before responding, _“I’ll come to you.”_

An hour and a half later, Will took in the always surreal sight of Hannibal parking his Bentley in Will’s driveway and exiting in attire more fitting for an art museum than Wolf Trap, Virginia. The opened collar of an airy cream-colored button-down and deep tan slacks must have seemed exceedingly casual to Hannibal, of course. Will’s gray t-shirt and jeans made him look like Hannibal’s handyman. 

The dogs crowded around Hannibal, as polite as they could be with the knowledge that the man always came bearing treats. Will begrudging acknowledged that Winston had grown somewhat fond of Hannibal during his stay at his home, and he walked by his side even after all of the dried sausage bits had been distributed. Hannibal clapped his hands clean and came to sit on Will’s porch. 

“Is that _seersucker_?” Will asked with barely concealed amusement.

Hannibal glanced down at his shirt, unshaken. He responded, “Cotton is ideal for summer attire.”

Will shook his head and looked out at the field. He was glad to share his misery with someone else, but it didn’t diminish the glumness. 

“What does indulging one’s melancholy look like for you, Dr. Lecter?” Will’s tone was teasing but not quite light.

“I made sweet crepes for breakfast. Then, I spent many hours drawing last Sunday’s dinner. That is the moment I will recall when I miss Abigail-- her, you, and me at my dining table.”

Will wanted to ridicule his choice of pretentious comfort food, but the sentiment behind his words stopped the taunt in Will’s throat. They sat in companionable silence for many minutes as the dogs resumed their playing in the yard, with the exception of Buster who sat in the shade by Will’s chair, refusing to engage. He hated the heat and was already sulking. 

“Let’s take a walk,” Will finally suggested. 

He collected water bottles for them both and let his feet lead them toward his stream. If Hannibal guessed where they were going, he didn’t say. His silence was the only tell that he was feeling more somber than usual. When the sound of running water reached their ears, Will glanced in his periphery and was content to see Hannibal looking around with greater interest, their destination now clear.

At the side of the stream, Hannibal wandered as far up and down the bank as he could easily walk without getting into the water. He squatted to let his fingers skim the surface of the cool current. He was taking a million small photographs in his mind to store for later. Will wondered if he would draw the stream later tonight, relaxed in his armchair or bed. Will was disproportionately pleased by the idea of his stream being bound in the same portfolio as Hannibal’s intricate drawings of Paris and Florence. They were all equally beautiful in Hannibal’s eyes, albeit for very different reasons, and Will felt himself thaw towards the man again. It was still painfully difficult to allow himself to feel the affection that crept into his chest now when Hannibal was around. He hated himself for it as much as he loved to feel it.

“Impeccable taste,” Hannibal finally commented, though it sounded more like filler than his true thoughts. 

“The Paris of Wolf Trap, Virginia,” Will joked.

“Better than Paris,” Hannibal replied absently, feeling the water again. 

Will watched him for signs of facetiousness, but he was being sincere.

“Now you know where to find me,” Will finally stated. Hannibal looked at him with eyes that gleamed with golden warmth; Will didn’t hold his gaze. He felt vulnerable, seen in a way that suggested Hannibal had added an entirely new layer to his working model of Will Graham.

Hannibal approached Will, who stood unmoving. He took one of Will’s hands in his own and loosely interlaced their fingers. The touch was soft, a gesture of recognition that this was not easy for Will, and Will squeezed his fingers once. This linking of hands was a reminder that their physical relationship had reached a place that bordered on uncomfortable. Small touches had become more frequent, but more intimate gestures-- including kissing-- had not occurred since the morning Will had gone to Hannibal’s house and all but dragged him to the study. It felt like there was a tentative, unspoken agreement to wait until Abigail was gone to sort themselves out; she didn’t need their adult tensions upsetting the semi-normalcy she had achieved. But now, Abigail was across an ocean, and Hannibal’s hand was so very warm in Will’s. His more salacious dreams had only increased as the days had passed, and his cold morning showers combatted more than the June heat. 

Will pulled his hand away to take a sip of water. With a voice thicker than he intended, Will suggested, “Head back?”

Hannibal’s face rapidly went from pensive to curious when he looked at Will’s closed expression and the flush creeping into his cheeks.

“I’ll defer to my gracious host. Lead the way.”

The walk back took less time than the walk there, but it seemed longer. Will was torn between need and feeling absolutely horrified: Had he truly become a hormone-driven teenager again? Was holding hands now equivalent to foreplay in his broken brain? 

Inside the house, Will turned to Hannibal as soon as the door was closed. The safety his home offered emboldened him. He let his hand rest on Hannibal’s open collar; he could feel the man’s heartbeat under his palm. Without speaking, he led Hannibal to the upstairs guest room and closed the door behind them, lest a wandering member of Will’s household attempt to check out what was occurring. 

They let their fingers graze over one another’s shirts tentatively, both starting to breathe a bit faster. Will leaned forward to let their mouths touch. It was a welcoming kiss, lips slightly parted but otherwise restrained. Will’s heart hurt at the sudden absence in his life while his body ached for touch; restraint was to be used sparingly today. 

He unbuttoned Hannibal’s shirt and pulled the collar away from his skin. He wanted to feel the without barrier the body capable of so much horror yet so much pleasure. Will worked it off of Hannibal’s arms and tossed it on the edge of the bed. Hannibal brought a hand to Will’s face, but Will moved it to his shoulder so that he could lean down to gnaw gently on Hannibal’s neck. He felt more than heard a deep sigh escape the other man when his teeth dug in a little too deeply, and when Hannibal pressed against him, Will could feel he was already hardening. 

“Hannibal,” Will whispered, voice hoarse. “Will you let me touch you?” 

He knew he didn’t actually have to ask for permission, but he also knew that Hannibal would very much enjoy it if he did. Echoing his words from Hannibal’s kitchen brought them back to that space, that moment.

“Yes, please,” Hannibal answered, sounding only a notch below his normal composure in spite of the glassiness in his eyes. 

Will wanted to destroy his self-possession, his politeness, his neatness; he wanted to make Hannibal writhe and gasp and forget all courteousness. In that spirit, Will dragged his canines along Hannibal’s jugular vein and asked in a breath, “Would you let me taste you?”

A tangible shudder passed through Hannibal’s body as he exhaled roughly. His answer came in a hard kiss that ended with teeth drawing blood from Will’s bottom lip. He ran his finger over it, tasted it, and then kissed Will again, his tongue stroking; the coppery tang of blood tinged the kiss. The blood promised that Will was nearer to seeing a version of Hannibal more similar to the one from Muskrat Farm than the one that held elaborate dinner parties. He ground against Hannibal as he broke the kiss and took half a step back.

“True cruelty,” Hannibal murmured through red lips. 

Will put his hands firmly on Hannibal’s shoulders and walked him backward to the bed. It hadn’t been slept in in years, but Will had exchanged the dusty sheets for fresh ones this morning, no doubt one more subconscious step that had led him to this. He was on top of Hannibal then, leaving hard kisses punctuated by the occasional rough suck or nip over his collarbones and shoulders. Unable to lie back and let Will work, Hannibal kissed and grasped at whatever part of Will he could reach-- hands wandering over his back and under his shirt, through his hair, around his thighs. Will straddled his hips, rocking his weight carefully against Hannibal’s erection. Will was sure Hannibal could also feel his own gratification at the movement. He leaned down to kiss the man once more, but Hannibal caught him by the hair. It wasn’t a painful grip, but it was firm. Will allowed him to bare his neck in this way. Hannibal’s eyes were dark and shining in the shadowy room. His breathing had sped up noticeably, every muscle seemed more tense, firmer. Hannibal ran a finger down Will’s exposed neck, the gentleness belying the increasing ferocity in his eyes. 

“If I let you bite me,” Will asked, his voice sounding much cooler and more confident now than he felt, “would you stop? _Could_ you stop?”

Hannibal nodded, breathing raspily. He leaned up to Will slowly, giving him ample time to pull away. Will only wrapped his arms loosely around Hannibal’s waist and waited. Hannibal put his mouth down over tendon instead of veins. The bite started as a lick, then a kiss, and then a nip. Steadily, Hannibal’s teeth sunk into Will’s skin. It was painful; Will took no delight in the physical action, but he remained in place, still making small movements with his hips. Hannibal pulled back as soon as the first drop of blood was drawn and nuzzled into Will’s neck, breath just shy of a pant. 

“Thank you,” Will said over the top of his head. This brought Hannibal back to attention, and he kissed Will again, his force bordering on desperation. Will couldn’t help but think for a moment how wholly twisted his own mind must be for this situation to be as impactful as it was. He thanked a man for not killing him in bed-- and he did so because he knew said potential murderer would be turned on by good manners. Maybe he should see Dr. Allgood.

Will moved off of Hannibal’s hips and let the tip of his nose graze a line down Hannibal’s body as he worked his way to his legs. The clean smell of skin was enticing. Will undid Hannibal’s belt as the older man watched him, half-dazed but half-ravenous. He pulled down his boxer briefs and absorbed the sight of Hannibal lying naked before him. He imagined this vision would appear in his dreams for many nights to come. 

Will felt a surge of apprehension, which he hid by kissing from Hannibal’s knee to his hip bone. One night following their session in the study, Will had taken his laptop and a precariously full glass of whiskey upstairs and sat alone in the empty master bedroom. He started by Googling various sexual acts, some of which he had first-hand experience receiving but not giving. By the time the whiskey was mostly gone, he had begrudgingly switched to porn to try to figure out what the hell he was supposed to do. Of course, porn was far from a bastion of accurate sexual information. He perused until he found some more or less believable videos. He didn’t feel very physically affected by the clips, but he tried not to worry about if he would falter when the actual moment came. 

To Will’s relief, his enthusiasm for seeing Hannibal destroyed by his actions only grew in practice. That was the difference for Will, of course-- it was Hannibal’s skin, Hannibal’s body, Hannibal’s blood, Hannibal’s semen. He was not touching some generically attractive man, which truthfully held no appeal for Will; he was touching Hannibal, with whom he had experienced months of pulling together and pushing apart, long nights laboring to make a tiny nick in one another’s forts, and actions only they could fully understand. His hands and mouth were manifesting physical desire for a person who was able to see in Will that which nobody else could-- and this prospect held immeasurable appeal.

Admittedly, in spite of his very real attraction to the man before him, Will was relieved to find that Hannibal was aroused enough it would probably not require a great deal of skill to reach completion. Will knew Hannibal’s eyes were on him, but he didn’t look up yet. He started tentatively, running his tongue along Hannibal’s length. He opened his mouth just enough to tease. He tasted precome and didn’t gag or panic-- both of which he had considered to be distinct possibilities earlier. He let his tongue navigate the rounded tip, skin soft in his mouth. 

Will slowly became more comfortable and found a slow, steady rhythm that didn’t trigger his gag reflex but also didn’t feel as though he were keeping Hannibal’s body away from him. He cast his gaze upward. Hannibal stared down at him with half-closed eyes that frequently blinked shut for just a beat too long, wanting to close but being forced open. His lips were still stained with Will’s blood but also damp with saliva from where he had run his tongue along his lower lip. His breathing was shaky and shallow, and his eyes were blackened by his pupils. Will saw his own teeth marks in Hannibal’s skin, red against white. He looked unhinged, and Will knew without doubt nobody had seen him exactly like this before. 

Very soon, Hannibal’s body tensed, and he breathily said Will’s name, a warning that he was close. Will continued, undeterred. A few seconds more and Hannibal gasped Will’s name and arched his back, then pushed himself back down to the bed and opened his mouth in a guttural moan-- the sound Will had been waiting eagerly to hear. 

When his eyes flitted open and finally started to truly see the world around him again, Hannibal reached for Will, pulled him to him, kissed Will with a single sweep of tongue into Will’s mouth, and held him close to his body. Will laid with his head to Hannibal’s chest and listened to his heart beating until it slowed to its normal rate. He tried to store in his memory every second of what had occurred.

An hour later, both men sated, Will and Hannibal sat in the bathroom as Hannibal cleaned their wounds. 

“I don’t think this is necessary,” Will complained.

“The human mouth is filthy,” Hannibal chided. “Do you want to explain to a physician how you acquired a nasty infection?”

Will sighed and let Hannibal work. 

Will cooked that night, a simple dinner of fish from the freezer, asparagus, and pan-fried potatoes with rosemary. Hannibal complimented it, of course, but Will knew he had probably identified at least three suggestions he would helpfully work into future cooking sessions at his comparatively huge kitchen in Baltimore. The strangest part of the evening was how strange it wasn’t; they could have been any two men who spent a lazy Saturday in bed and ate a home-cooked dinner together, both still flush with excitement about a new romantic partner. It was an easy, comfortable life to slip into. 

Day turned to night, and Hannibal ended up sleeping in Will’s bed in the living room. Will’s clothing fit him poorly, but he wore the too-tight shirt and thread-bare bottoms with the dignity he displayed in all aspects of his life. Well, now Will could say, with great delight, with the dignity he displayed in _most_ aspects of his life. When they started to drift to sleep, Will wrapped his body around Hannibal’s, breathing in his scent and enjoying his warmth even in the summer night. 

Hannibal left late the next morning, and Will promised he would continue their Sunday tradition of dinners together. Hannibal also made him promise to bring a change of clothes in case he, for some unknown reason, felt compelled to stay the night. It all felt too uncomplicated, and Will spent most of his Sunday working while his stomach grew increasingly tense, waiting for the other proverbial shoe to drop. 

Yet, two weeks passed quietly. Will gained an unspoken hope that maybe-- just for a time-- his life truly was this comfortable. His summer class had started, and the students were generally a determined group-- determined enough to elect to take an accelerated course. Will could lecture, write short pieces for regional journals, take his dogs on long walks, talk to Abigail once a week about Rome, and spend as many nights as he could respectably fit under the same roof as Hannibal. Will found himself wholly satisfied with his life as it was, but he innately sensed how precariously balanced his life was. He had almost convinced himself he was being paranoid-- which would not have been particularly shocking. 

However, one afternoon, his lecture finished, Will watched as the teacup came back together in an unexpected, unwelcome way, when Jack Crawford parted the sea of exiting trainees, headed straight for Will Graham.


	13. Chapter 13

Will froze under Jack Crawford’s determined eyes. He forced himself to move, shuffling some papers into a folder. He wasn’t quite sure they belonged in that folder, but it felt better than remaining suspended in space.

“Will,” Jack greeted with a tip of his head. 

“Jack.” 

“It’s good to see you back in the classroom. It suits you,” Jack observed affably. Will wondered what Jack needed if he was greeting him so warmly after their last exchange in the hospital.

“I’m glad to be back. Someone has to keep the GPAs down,” Will responded wryly.

Jack smiled; it looked strained. 

“Listen, Will,” Jack began, sounding gruff, less polite and more like himself. 

_Ah, here we go,_ Will thought. He was truthfully glad Jack was straight to the point. 

“I know we left things on a bad note. I want to apologize for that. I shouldn’t have come in swinging right after you woke up. You were in a tough place, and I didn’t help.”

Will considered the words and replied diplomatically, “You had just been through something traumatic yourself. Neither of us were at our best.”

Jack looked satisfied that his half-apology had been half-received. 

“I was glad to see you didn’t resign,” Jack continued. “You’ve saved lives, Will. I can’t see you locked up in academia for the next twenty years.”

Will stopped his superficial attempt at organizing his desk and looked Jack in the eyes.

“As much as I appreciate your desire to mend fences, I’m guessing that’s not the only reason you came by.”

Jack looked around the room briefly, checking if anybody was within earshot. 

“You got me,” he conceded, giving another strained smile. Will surmised that whatever Jack was about to pitch was something Will would decidedly not want to do. With a sigh that flared his nostrils, Jack went on, “I know the man saved your life at Verger’s farm, but is that enough to wash away everything Dr. Lecter has done to you? It wouldn’t be for me.”

Will wanted to keel over his desk and laugh until he cried. He wanted to laugh because somehow Jack had deduced that Will’s refusal to give a statement contradicting Mason Verger’s could be directly attributed to Hannibal Lecter calling 911. He wanted to laugh because Agent Crawford was undoubtedly on the verge of asking Will to help him trap Hannibal again while Will currently had a perfect bite mark on his shoulder blade from the same man. Will wanted to laugh because he had been truly naive enough to believe for even a moment that his life was simple. 

Will’s face didn’t betray his dark amusement when he said, “I’m trying to move on. All our investigation accomplished was giving me a three-week hospital stay and a new scar.”

Jack had the decency to look away, not ashamed but not as righteous as before.

“There’s new information.”

Will’s stomach dropped. He didn’t want to ask Jack what the information was, but he couldn’t refuse. Of course, Jack thought it was Will’s curiosity and possibly residual vengeance that would drive him to take the bait dangling from the end of Jack’s line. Will’s motivations were slightly more complex. 

“Forensic evidence?”

Jack shook his head and answered, “I did some digging while I was on leave. Nothing illegal, just public records and talking to some folks with new insights.”

Will lifted his brows and prompted, “Like what?”

“I asked myself how a man could lead such a visible life if he was butchering dozens of victims over the years. Guests over every other night, a house right in the city-- all of that and he was able to turn humans into sick displays. He’d need space to work. There’s no way he drove out to where we found Miriam every time he wanted to commit a crime. So, the question became, where does he go to work uninterrupted? That’s when I requested the floor plans for his house.”

Will kept his face in a curious scowl, a look he had mastered over the years. 

“Did he make his purchase contingent on installation of an evil lair?” Will challenged, trying to sound sarcastic.

“Almost. There’s a huge basement under his house. I’ve never been in that basement. Have you, Will?”

Will shook his head and thought of Freddie Lounds.

“Even more interesting is that when he moved in he basically had a meat locker installed before he spent a single night there.”

“Where’d that information come from?”

“I called the previous owner. She remembered him very well-- he has a way of making an impression.”

Outwardly, Will smirked at Jack’s comment; inwardly, Will wanted to drag Hannibal away from Baltimore by his coiffed hair while telling him that he really, truly did not need to charm every single individual he met if he was inclined to continue murdering and eating people. 

“His cooking could be the impetus, or it could be a convenient cover for Dr. Lecter’s very own butcher shop,” Will pretended to muse aloud. He couldn’t shoot down everything Jack said if he wanted to learn more. He needed to sound at least a little bitter; Will didn’t find this terribly hard to muster.

“Exactly. So, let’s say someone were to go in the basement and see what’s there. A friend of his, not acting on official FBI duty. Maybe that friend takes a look in the freezer. It’s hard to imagine that person not finding something-- anything-- that could be turned over so I can get a legitimate search warrant.”

Will looked at Jack apprehensively, “I gather that friend is me.”

“I know how conflicted you are right now, Will-- he tried to ruin your life, and then he saved it.”

Once again, Will contained his insane laughter at Jack’s confidence that he understood why Will might be _conflicted_. 

“But,” Jack began again, “I also know your bottom line is saving lives. I’m not asking you to go back to active duty-- the opposite of that actually. I’m asking you to be a...concerned citizen,” Jack finished both joking and not.

“If I stick my nose somewhere it doesn’t belong, Dr. Lecter is liable to take a chunk out of it.” 

Will thought Jack would appreciate the colorful language, and Crawford’s nodding smile told Will he was right. Jack looked relaxed, less tense now. He stuck his hands casually in his pockets and waited for Will to go on. 

“But you’re not wrong. This is the closest we might get to catching Hannibal. It might at least give us enough to hold him and freeze his passport,” Will paused and affected deep consideration. “I’ll see what I can do, Jack.”

Jack clapped him lightly on the elbow and gave him an authentic grin this time.

“I’m not expecting miracles. Anything you can find might help our case. Then, we can all move on.”

Will felt himself falter at that idea. His new normal had consumed his life; he had forgotten there was a life before Hannibal. He had, consequently, forgotten there could be one after Hannibal. What would Will’s look like if Hannibal were put behind bars? He was disgusted by that thought, so he tried again: What would Will’s life look like if Hannibal went on the run and Will didn’t, started over? Jack caught the look on Will’s face but misinterpreted it.

“I know this is a lot for you. I’m sorry I have to ask-- if there was another way that didn’t involve you, I would take it in a heartbeat.”

“I understand,” Will reassured. “I’m just processing the situation.”

“I’ll leave you to ‘process’ in private. I’ve already taken enough of your time. Thank you, Will.”

Will only nodded in reply and stared off into the distance, his mind living in two different worlds but his body paralyzed. 

When Will left Quantico that evening, he drove around for a long time. He was going in the general direction of Baltimore, but he was taking a circuitous route. He went cold at the thought of Hannibal in a cell, but he still needed to spend some time testing the idea of Hannibal being free but out of his life. Intellectually, Will relished the idea of wiping the slate clean and starting anew in a post-Hannibal world. Emotionally, however, he could not fathom a separation of that magnitude. How long would it be before Will would find himself traversing the world searching for those dark, knowing eyes? Would there ever come a time when he would hear a knock on his door or his phone ringing and not hope it was Hannibal? And worse, seeing accusations of betrayal written across Hannibal’s features was unimaginable. He realized it probably didn’t matter what he _thought_ if his emotions pushed him to desperation. 

Will eventually ended up where he already knew he would: Knocking on Hannibal’s door. 

Hannibal opened the door, clearly in the middle of cooking dinner. Will felt a small flutter in his stomach-- he would never tell him, but he had come to love watching Hannibal cook and, frankly, found it a rather attractive sight. He immediately felt overwhelmingly guilty for even imagining a world where he sent Hannibal running into the ether in exchange for a fresh start of his own. 

“Will,” Hannibal smiled, his eyes crinkling at the sides. “I’ve told you before-- you don’t have to knock. Use your key. If ever your misplaced propriety causes a meal to burn, I can’t promise kindness.” 

Will hugged Hannibal to him abruptly, still apologizing in his mind. They didn’t embrace like this often, but when they did, Hannibal nuzzled his head down so that his nose just buried into Will’s neck. It was a physical association linked only to Hannibal, and it provided Will with comfort he didn’t usually feel. When he pulled away, he looked Hannibal in the eyes and plainly stated, “We have a problem.”

“Let’s have our problem in the kitchen,” Hannibal answered and led the way through the house. He fell back into his station behind the island, and Will sat heavily in the comfortable corner armchair. 

“Jack Crawford and I had a conversation today.”

“How is Agent Crawford? Some never recover from the loss of a spouse.”

Will sighed, irritated. “He’s doing okay, I guess. We didn’t have much heart-to-heart time.”

Hannibal glanced at Will, entertained by his snapping.

“He spent his bereavement leave finding information about your house-- namely, collecting the floor plans and reminiscing with the previous homeowner about your grand freezer installation designs.”

Hannibal paused mid-slice for only a moment, then continued his task. 

“That is quite clever of Agent Crawford. I applaud his tenacity. I hazard to guess he was soliciting your assistance?”

“You hazard correctly,” Will grumbled. “He wants me to find something suspicious in your basement to turn over to the FBI so that he can get a search warrant.”

Hannibal chuckled once and raised a corner of his mouth in a grin, no doubt finding great humor in the idea of Will stumbling upon his own victims in the freezer.

“What did you tell Uncle Jack?”

“I told him I would try my very best.”

“I have a good deal of flash-frozen beef downstairs right now. I was gifted part of a cow and was forced to freeze the excess. You could bring him any number of cuts with my blessing.”

Will interrupted this line of conversation to ask, “Someone gave you part of a cow?”

“Yes, your dear friend Dr. Allgood. His brother owns a cattle ranch. He was appreciative of the quantity of patients I have referred to him of late, and he’s aware of how much I enjoy cooking.”

“Why are you referring patients elsewhere?”

Hannibal sighed quietly and responded, “Would it be surprising if I said have concerns about the sustainability of our current life?”

Will was somewhat heartened by the fact that Hannibal did, in fact, worry about _something_. He was equally unnerved by it.

“Planning an escape?”

“Simply planning for the possibility of one,” Hannibal answered, still busy slicing vegetables. He looked up and caught Will’s gaze. “For both of us, unless I have misunderstood.”

Will stood up and came around the island. He took the knife from Hannibal’s hand, letting his own fingers linger on the man’s skin. He began chopping the vegetables in Hannibal’s place, sliding into the role of sous-chef. 

“You’ve understood perfectly well.”

They worked side-by-side, the rest of the conversation focused only on the endeavor at hand. 

After dinner, they sat at the table next to one another. Hannibal had Will’s hand in his own, stroking the palm with his thumb. Will invariably felt his body warm in affection when Hannibal would idly hold his hand. It was an innocent, gentle gesture, and Will’s mind had yet to grow used to linking it with Hannibal, who was far from innocent and widely not considered gentle. 

“When were you going to tell me you were thinking of us leaving?” Will inquired, sounding annoyed to his own ears in spite of the tender interaction.

“When it was necessary. It’s now necessary,” Hannibal answered, as thought it was the clearest thing in the world.

“Did you consider that our definitions of ‘necessary’ might differ substantially?” Will pushed.

“I did. The less you know, the safer you are. I had to make a choice.”

Will exhaled audibly; it came out more frustrated than angry. 

“It’s not your choice alone to make. I have a right to know if my life is getting ready to drastically change. You can’t withhold information and expect me to be...pleasant,” Will mumbled the last word, fully aware that he often was not pleasant without reason.

“What I’m about to ask of you is very unfair. When it comes to our departure from this life, could you trust me to provide us with a graceful exit?”

He was right-- it was incredibly unfair to ask this of Will. Yet, Will found that he did trust Hannibal. He felt like an idiot for trusting him, but he did, nevertheless. The notion of escaping abroad was definitively Hannibal’s expertise, not his; however, the thought of living in uncertainty until they were safe caused Will to feel cagey. It was a feeling he’d have to live with, he supposed.

“It is unfair. I don’t like it, but I’ll do it,” Will huffed. “And if you give me any reason not to trust you, I’ll deliver you in a box to Jack’s doorstep.” Will added the last part for good measure, and Hannibal’s upturned mouth did not bend into a frown. 

They sat comfortably together, hands linked, thinking about an uncertain future. Hannibal looked distant, as though he was already there; Will, meanwhile, tried to squelch his anxieties by imagining every possible plausible scenario. 

When Hannibal broke the silence, his voice sounded more guarded, and Will intuitively became wary. 

“While we’re discussing the future, I have one more favor I’d like to ask of you, Will.”

“It seems to be a theme today. What’s one more?” 

Hannibal was unmoved by Will’s biting tone.

“If ever we were to be apprehended…,” he paused for a breath, and Will became worried at Hannibal’s reluctance to finish his thought. “Blame it on me, Will. Blame it all on me.”

“What?” Will asked, confused, his brow deeply furrowed and his jaw tightening.

“I will support whatever story you fabricate. What’s one or two--or five-- more bodies to me now? I’ll sleep easier in my cell if I know you are not suffering in kind, and...Abigail needs one of us free in the world.” Hannibal was staring a hole into the table, but his voice was calm, practiced. 

“You’re asking me to blame you for _my_ murders? I don’t know if I can do that, Hannibal,” Will responded honestly, his head swimming with thoughts strongly colored by feelings. 

“If not for me, for Abigail. I recognize this offends your sense of self. I imagine if you were ever to be prosecuted for a crime you actually committed, you would be entirely unrepentant for the jury. That’s why this is a gift I’m asking you to give me.”

Will leaned back in the chair, removed his hand from Hannibal’s, and brought the heels of his hands to his eyes. He felt an ache forming there. He needed to be alone to think through the day and sort out his feelings from Hannibal’s and Jack’s; they were starting to run together and stain one another in a blur. Will could still feel Hannibal’s gaze burning into him even with his own eyes closed. 

Without removing his hands, Will asked, “Did you ever think a day would come when I would _not_ want to pin a crime on you?” He snapped his eyes open then and added, “That was rhetorical. Don’t answer.”

Hannibal took this as a tacit agreement and ran a hand through Will’s hair affectionately. 

“You look tired. Does your head hurt?”

“Yeah, kind of. Not a migraine, though. Just pressure.”

Will had not yet grown accustomed to Hannibal’s inexplicable tenderness towards him. Once, Hannibal had packed him a lunch when Will was leaving straight from Baltimore to Quantico, the reason being that Hannibal felt Will’s recent fatigue could be exacerbated by lack of leafy greens in his diet. Will had coarsely responded by saying, “You do know you’re the Chesapeake Ripper, right?” Hannibal had simply put the container in his hands and told him to get spinach the next time he bought groceries for himself. 

Now, Hannibal held the back of his hand against Will’s forehead, checking his temperature, and Will barked a short laugh at the action. Hannibal glared but told him he didn’t have a fever. Will was getting ready to tell Hannibal that he could feel when he was becoming feverish, no thanks to Dr. Lecter, but when Hannibal rubbed his fingertips into the tense muscles of Will’s neck, the words died on his tongue. 

Jack did not stop by Will’s lecture hall the next week, and every day that Will left without seeing Agent Crawford was marked as a success. He was only cornered by the man once, and Will provided a vague story about how he had tried to bring up the basement but was rebuffed. Jack appeared to accept the tale and told him to keep at it. 

Will attempted not to drive himself completely insane trying to predict what schemes Hannibal had worked out, but Will’s combination of curiosity and compulsive overanalysis made it nearly impossible. He spent many nights lying in bed as different versions of his life played out across the ceiling. Thus, when Will opened his mailbox and found a thick, expensive envelope with his address written in Hannibal’s curling manuscript, he immediately felt ill. When he opened the envelope and discovered it was an invitation to a dinner party, his vision sparkled with black dots, and he had to take multiple breaths to reach a point where he felt steady enough to call Hannibal. 

_“Hello?”_

“I just checked my mail.” Will did not trust himself to elaborate.

_“I presume you have received your invitation, Will.”_

Will remained silent save for an angry puff of air that he knew Hannibal could hear over the phone.

_“What does one do when they have an abundance of resources and nowhere safe to store them? They share with those who would appreciate them.”_

The utter arrogance of this entire proposition finally pushed Will to speak. He wasn’t sure if Jack or someone else at the Bureau had ever considered tapping Hannibal’s phone (or his own), so he spoke carefully but meaningfully.

“If you invite too many guests to the table and find you are not equipped to handle them, don’t look to me for assistance.” It was a bluff, but it felt good to say. 

_“I would never ask a guest to help salvage a meal. Rest assured, Will, that all you are being asked to do is attend and eat.”_

Will made a noise like a growl and ended the call without further discussion. It was Tuesday; the dinner party was scheduled for Saturday night. His standing meeting with Hannibal occurred every Wednesday, and Will had never before so looked forward to a session.

When Hannibal opened his office door at exactly 7:30 PM, Will was already standing on the other side, fuming. He walked past Hannibal and pulled his normal chair very close to Hannibal’s before dropping into it. Hannibal still had his therapist mask on, but he didn’t sit immediately, stopping to scan Will’s body for signs of his true degree of anger. When Hannibal finally took his seat, Will leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.

“Hannibal, I’m going to give you one minute to explain as succinctly as possible why I shouldn’t go ahead and attempt to kill you to save us both a lot of trouble.”

Hannibal, infuriatingly, smiled at these terms. 

“I have an excess of good meat in my freezer. Disposals are difficult to clean thoroughly and easy to sweep for evidence, assuming the initial act of disposing doesn’t result in stoppage. Garbage may be searched by a determined officer once it is on the curb. The cleanest way to rid oneself of a body is to consume it. That is the one thing Mason Verger did enviably well. Think of it as cleaning house before a move.”

Will’s mouth was a tight, straight line. He chewed Hannibal’s words, and gave himself a moment to cool before offering a retort. 

“You are either the most recklessly optimistic man I know or the most self-destructive. Possibly both-- I haven’t ruled that out yet.”

“That’s almost a compliment,” Hannibal replied, unruffled. 

“Is there anything at all I can say to stop you from proceeding with this inane plan?”

“I’ve already hired a valet.”

Will took that as a hard no. 

“I decided on this course of action without assistance, and if I fail, I fail of my own accord. You’ve already made your intent to remain unentangled very clear.” Hannibal sounded slightly defensive.

“You and I live in...entanglement,” Will shook his head at his own loss for words. He was starting to resign himself to what would be the inevitable conclusion to their disagreement. 

“You may not believe this, Will, but your presence alone is more than I would dare ask.” Hannibal put his hands on Will’s knees as he said this. 

Will let his head roll back and his eyes close. He breathed in deeply three times, still not calm yet. 

“I believe you. I also believe in being prepared.”

“We’ll prepare together, then,” Hannibal said, eyes bright. “Come early, stay the night. Preparation and clean-up. If it will alleviate your worries, you can oversee the entire affair to ensure it is up to your exacting standards.”

Will rolled his eyes upward at the irony of Hannibal teasing him for having high standards.

“I would feel better if I was involved. I’ll be there.”

Hannibal gave his knees a squeeze before getting up to walk to his desk. Will followed him with his gaze but remained seated. Hannibal rifled through a portfolio of drawings, picked one out, and brought it to Will. Will examined the detailed, life-like replication of the interior of a building with high arches and mosaics inlaid along the walls. 

“What do you see?” Hannibal asked.

Will examined it more intently, and he recalled a conversation the men had weeks earlier. 

“The Norman Palace in Palermo?” 

Hannibal smiled with more than his eyes. 

“The entrance to your mind palace,” Will recalled.

“Yes, yes it is. I think I can finally draw it from memory, but it’s impossible to tell until I visit again. Something is lost in the act of translating reality to charcoal. You only recover what is missing in the place of origin.”

Hannibal took back the paper, and Will looked at him, puzzled. Hannibal caught the look but did not offer clarification. When he was home that evening, Will spent hours looking up images of the Norman Palace. Eventually, Will went to sleep accompanied by his unasked questions.


	14. Chapter 14

Will spent most of Saturday starting and stopping projects around his house. He attempted to tie lures but found his hands less steady than usual as his mind continued to scream at a silent, repentant version of Hannibal who did not enjoy extravagant displays of carnage. Midday, Will gave up and left for Baltimore, saying good-bye to his dogs and reassuring them a dog sitter would be there later to let them out. On the drive, Will once again wondered how someone who had evaded the FBI-- and who knows what European police forces-- could be so brash. 

Hannibal’s house was already buzzing with activity when Will arrived. Staff dressed in all black scurried around setting up tables and nervously rearranging furniture according to a plan Hannibal had helpfully drawn out for them. Will didn’t envy the men and women responsible for moving Dr. Lecter’s antiques. Hannibal was in the kitchen, preparing cold appetizers and demurely correcting any missteps he caught. Heaven help the server who picked up a Georgian salver instead of an Edwardian. Will was not sure what a _salver_ even was, so their knowledge already outpaced his own. 

“Will!” Hannibal greeted, bewilderingly cheerful. His jauntiness stoked Will’s ire.

Will glanced at him but then turned his attention to the appetizers Hannibal was crafting. He recognized a pate and all of the vegetables being cut into intricate shapes were easily identifiable, but he was mystified by the frozen block of what appeared to be beef and a congealed, shredded white meat concoction that sat in a bowl suspended by ice within a larger tub. Will didn’t know what precisely he was looking for, but he did not find it-- which was, he supposed, the point. 

“Impressive,” he concluded, dispassionately. 

“I’ve met your standard of discretion?”

Will exhaled a dry laugh and shot Hannibal a dirty look. 

“You must not drive yourself to such depths of worry, Will. You’ll have a heart attack by fifty.”

That sounded pretty decent to Will right then, and he wondered if he could push that date up a few years. Will observed Hannibal working, but refrained from offering to help. The man was so collected, poised even. This wasn’t uncharacteristic for him, of course, but something in the scene didn’t land right in Will’s mind. He leaned against a counter and tried not to appear as though he was treating Hannibal’s preparations like a crime scene. He took inventory of the ingredients on the island and tried to see the hors d'oeuvres on silver trays being ferried around a room full of well-dressed men and women. 

“I didn’t think you’d make pate from frozen liver,” Will observed aloud. 

“Not all of the meat is free range,” Hannibal answered. It was unsatisfactory and purposefully vague, even for Hannibal. Will let his temper flare at the guessing game he found himself playing.

Will came to stand next to Hannibal and held his wrist, stopping his fussy ministrations. 

“I have rethought my earlier stance on lies of omission,” Will said slowly, too quiet for anyone nearby to hear. He released the wrist when a black-clad young woman walked through the kitchen toward the wine pantry. “New terms. If I ask you a question, you tell me the entire truth. Every ugly, undesirable word of it.”

“That’s frightfully beneficial to you alone,” Hannibal said in a low voice.

“Then let me add that I won’t ask you questions I don’t want answered,” Will replied slowly, the hint of a threat creeping into his tone. “What aren’t you telling me?”

The men finally looked into one another’s eyes. Hannibal’s earlier effervescence had dissipated under Will’s scrutiny. He leaned in close, and Will thought for a moment he was going to kiss him, try to convince him to let _trust_ be enough, but Hannibal dipped his lips toward Will’s ears and let his whispers sing the song of the sea. Will’s body flashed hot and cold, indignation giving way to stillness.

Midway through the dinner party, Will stepped outside and called Jack Crawford. 

_“Will? Everything all right?”_

“I’m currently attending Dr. Lecter’s dinner party.” 

A beat of silence passed before Jack spoke again.

_“Is meat on the menu?”_

“I think so. There’s certainly enough of it. He mentioned emptying his freezer…,” Will let his voice trail off, let Jack’s mind construct horrors beyond imagining.

_“Take samples if you can. Try to get a look into the basement.”_

“I don’t think he’s cleaned yet. I don’t smell bleach-- it would disturb the ambience.” Will knew how much Jack must be salivating at the thought of catching Hannibal in his own kitchen at the conclusion of a dinner attended by Baltimore’s socialites. 

_“I’ll call in every favor I have to get a search warrant by morning.”_

“I’ll distract him as much as I can. Gotta go, Jack.” Will tried to add urgency to his voice; he wanted Jack to imagine him standing huddled in a corner, keeping a wide-eyed watch for Hannibal.

_“Be careful. I’ll see you soon.”_

The call ended, and Will reentered the home just as the main course was delivered to the dining room by a procession of servers. 

By the time the last guest left at just before 11:00, Will was growing slower with fatigue. His valiant effort at avoiding socializing drained him as much as turning Hannibal’s plan over and over in his mind, probing for weaknesses. The one highlight of the evening had been seeing a judge known for hard-nosed sentencing get well and truly drunk on one of Hannibal’s curated wines. Mrs. Ashton, a costume designer for the city opera, was the last, lingering guest, but Hannibal graciously escorted her to a waiting taxi over her thinly veiled suggestion that maybe she ought to lie down somewhere because she was awfully tired. 

Hannibal returned from escorting Mrs. Ashton with a rather satisfied look on his face. Will supposed his distaste for rudeness excluded women who flattered him by making semi-drunken passes. He caught Will’s eye and came to stand before him, placing his hands on Will’s shoulders. 

“I realize dinner parties constitute one circle of Hell in your view. Thank you for traversing it with me.”

Will didn’t want to let his lips turn upward in a small grin, but he didn’t quite stop them. 

“I’m tired,” he directly replied. 

Most of the clean-up had been done throughout the night by staff members who seemed to float among the guests like exceedingly well-mannered ghosts. There were still a few trays that needed special care and cookware Hannibal would not let anyone else touch.

“I imagine you’ll return home tonight considering our changed circumstances,” Hannibal carefully guessed, bringing his fingertips to brush through the ends of Will’s hair. 

Will stared deeply into Hannibal’s dark, warm eyes. No signs of worry lingered there. It was almost a comfort.

“I plan to stay, unless this is your way of tactfully asking me to leave,” Will stated firmly.

Hannibal ran a finger from Will’s temple to his chin. 

“I will respect whatever you choose to do, but you must know Agent Crawford will insist on overseeing a search of my home. He might not respond well to finding you still in it.”

Will tried to push away the wave of nausea that rose in him as he thought of Jack’s face. It abated as Hannibal’s other hand fell from his hair to lightly touch the scar left by Mason Verger. Honest words tumbled from Will’s weary mind and out of his mouth at the touch.

“If something goes wrong, I don’t want you to spend your last night free without me.”

Hannibal kissed him before Will realized what he had allowed himself to say; he imagined it tasted of sadness and of love. They made their way upstairs, limbs intertwined, and disregarded the few items left on the island.

Just before sunrise, the insistent, forceful knocking Will had been waiting for finally came. He stayed up most of the night wrapped around Hannibal trying to memorize the feeling of every muscle, the sound of every breath, and the specific clean, spicy scent he caught at the nape of the man’s neck. Hannibal had remained in a dead slumber until the knocking echoed throughout the house. Hannibal sat up immediately, as though he hadn’t been asleep at all, kissed Will hard-- it felt like a good-bye-- and grabbed his robe as he went downstairs for his date with Jack Crawford. 

Will heard Jack’s low voice and waited a few moments before appearing at the staircase landing. Hearing footsteps on the stairs, Jack peered upward. When he spotted Will, he looked at him as though he were merely the spectre of Will Graham, a spirit rattling around Hannibal’s exquisite home in flannel pants and a somewhat discolored white t-shirt. When Will failed to dissolve into a cloud of mist, Jack put his hands on his hips, widening his stature further. Will couldn’t tell where Jack fell on the spectrum between confused and irate. Quite possibly, Jack had yet to decide for himself. 

“Good morning, Will. This is quite a...surprise. Did I wake you?” The words were bitter, though not venomous.

“I had one whiskey too many last night. Better safe than sorry,” Will answered, feigning a casual easiness he didn’t feel whatsoever. 

Hannibal came into view as Will descended the staircase to stand a few feet away from Jack. He chimed in apologetically, “My fault for over-serving our good Will.”

Jack slid back into watchful confusion and repeated, “One whiskey too many.” He let the words sit in the air between them, then continued, “I didn’t picture you as a man carried away by _spirits_. It appears I was wrong.”

Will tried not to squirm under Jack’s dissecting gaze. 

“This is not the typical way my guests are awoken, Will,” Hannibal interjected, pulling Will away from Jack with his words. “Would you mind taking a look at the search warrant? This is your forte, after all.”

Will compelled himself to move toward Hannibal and take the copy of the warrant from his hands, pretending to decipher the information he already knew he’d find. Jack, recognizing he was caught in a scene he saw to be theatrics but didn’t quite know the lines for, exited toward the kitchen to bark at the searching officers. Will was relieved to find the search warrant was extremely limited in scope, no doubt a condition of a judge who owed and trusted Jack but had doubts about probable cause. The description of the evidence the officers were allowed to search for made it difficult for any area of the home to be thoroughly inspected except the kitchen, dining room, and basement. 

A few minutes later, a young, uniformed man whom Will did not know dragged two chairs into the foyer and sat them across from one another.

“Agent Crawford wants you both to remain here and not speak.”

“Are you our babysitter, then? What did you do to earn such an illustrious role?” Will shot at the baby-faced man. 

The officer seemed to sputter for a moment before spitting back, “Chair. Sit.” 

If the man’s rough handling of Hannibal’s chairs hadn’t drawn the older man’s attention, the inarguably rude tone certainly did. Hannibal looked the young man up and down with a withering glare but said nothing. Will spent the first hour of the search picturing ways the new officer might be presented on a dinner table as he idly watched the more familiar officers pass by with bagged items, mostly from Hannibal’s refrigerator and trash. When that grew stale, Will closed his eyes, let his head drop, and waded slowly into his stream.

He didn’t know how long he had sat there, his mind far away, but Jack’s voice close by seemed to come thundering from the sky, and he found himself back in the foyer. He was looking at Jack’s back as the man spoke to Hannibal, who was still seated across from him. Hannibal’s face was drawn into a carefully constructed expression of cordial discontent. Will missed the first part of Jack’s message, but tuned in to hear him say, “I’ll ensure the lab analysis is completed today. You’ll be hearing from us soon. Don’t try to leave the city.”

Jack stormed away without waiting for Hannibal to answer or sparing so much as a glance at Will. The last few agents-- both of whom Will recognized-- walked by, not making eye contact, and closed the front door behind them. Hannibal’s face melted into neutrality; he stood, stretched, and went to the kitchen to assess the disarray left by the search. Will returned Hannibal’s chairs to their rightful place but kept his distance, giving Hannibal a few minutes alone in what had been his sanctuary. 

Hannibal was emerging from the basement when Will eventually sought him out. Hannibal’s mouth was set into a rigid line. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back for a long moment. Will wondered if he was disassembling the kitchen in his mind palace in the wake of the morning’s activity. When he finally opened his eyes and looked at Will, his eyes were still cold and distant, but he drew him into an embrace; it felt like Hannibal couldn’t pull him close enough. Will let out a deep breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. 

“We’re not in jail yet,” Will said into Hannibal’s neck. He received no response. “Jack was angry when he left. That’s good.”

“Yes,” Hannibal murmured into Will’s hair. When he finally released Will, he began the task of straightening up the kitchen. Will joined silently.

Hannibal broke the quiet after many minutes.

“Jack tried to uncover me using my cooking before. He had a box of hors d'oeuvres analyzed for human matter, I assumed at your behest. Evidently, he was unsuccessful.”

“Fool me once, shame on you…,” Will let the aphorism hang unfinished. That earned him a half-smile from Hannibal. 

Will went home after Hannibal’s kitchen and dining room had been restored, though the feeling of intrusion had yet to settle out of the air. He greeted his dogs and then let them loose to run off some energy. Lack of sleep and waning adrenaline finally caught up with Will, and he sat heavily on the porch stairs, leaning his head against the wooden railing next to him. Between the sounds of his dogs, the warm summer air, and his fatigue, he started to doze where he sat. He half-dreamed the plan Hannibal had executed and shared with Will the previous evening; his mind needed to see what it had not been permitted to know. 

_The weather was still cold in Baltimore. He saw a quiet Sunday dinner with Will, Abigail, and Hannibal sitting at the ornate dining table. Will moved cautiously as he recovered from his stab wound. In his dream, Will saw the moment Hannibal realized he had a time bomb ticking in his basement, threatening to obliterate all three of them. Will watched Hannibal drive to the seaside home, which Will had only seen photos of, twice a week; he observed Hannibal cook for Abigail and let her do the dishes while he went to take in the sea air on the patio. Will followed Hannibal as another chunk of flesh was dropped from the cliff into the dragging currents of the Atlantic. The sea easily consumed the pounds of meat, fish fattening themselves on Freddie Lounds, Randall Tier, and unknown others. Bodies dumped in the ocean might never surface; raw roasts and organs tossed in piecemeal assuredly did not. He saw Hannibal cleaning and recleaning every millimeter of space a body could have touched in the years since he purchased his homes; he saw Hannibal lose his appetite for days on end due to the choking chemical smells. He saw what hadn’t occurred yet but soon would, the image painted by Hannibal’s words: Hannibal’s attorney sending a letter to Kate Prurnell asking for Jack’s head on a silver platter for the relentless harassment of his client by a federal agent. The word “unsubstantiated” would be used liberally._

Will woke up with a jerk to find the world had darkened around him. His pack slept soundly on the cooling grass in the summer night. He roused them, filed everyone inside, and went to bed without changing. He dreamed of serenely driving an airplane into the ocean, only to find the sea was already red.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter! I can officially say I've finished my first fanfic. I'm so thankful for everyone who has taken the time to read (and extra, extra thankful for the comments, kudos, and bookmarks). I've grown strangely attached to this version of Will and Hannibal, but I tried to keep the chapter short and sweet.

By the last day of August, Will had not seen Hannibal in almost two months. During that time, Jack retired; no parties were held where agents and techs drank too much and told embarrassing stories about the retiree. It was not that kind of retirement, and it was hard to find anyone in the Bureau who didn’t know the story behind his swift exit. Hannibal-- poor, beleaguered Dr. Lecter-- was taking a sabbatical abroad to remove himself from the fray. It was, after all, the polite thing to do in the face of such public tumult. 

Will continued teaching his summer class without missing a single meeting. He spent July teaching and sprucing up his house-- painting, refinishing the wood floors, and obsessively greasing every squeaking door and cabinet. It wasn’t until late July that he began to truly miss Hannibal in a longing, aching way. He thought about the hour or so he had spent driving around Baltimore earlier in the summer considering a life where Hannibal fled underground and Will was left in Virginia to start over; it seemed so alluring for that fleeting moment. In reality, it was terribly dull, and he was mildly ashamed at how quickly he had grown accustomed to being touched by another person and having unfettered permission to touch in return. He found himself petting his dogs more often and not correcting them when they jumped on his bed. 

Hannibal and Will spoke at least three times a week. Every Wednesday, Will would detour to Baltimore and stop at Hannibal’s favorite gourmet grocer. He would collect ingredients he couldn’t always pronounce and that cost roughly three times what he would normally pay for any single food item. At 7:30 on the dot, Hannibal would call Will from Paris and talk him through preparing the recipe he had selected for that evening. Will always claimed his attempts turned out wonderfully, even when he was sure Hannibal heard the smoke alarm the time an herb-coated pork sirloin caught fire. The last Wednesday in July, Will ran into the overly-friendly Mrs. Ashton at the market. The meeting was highly informative. He learned that Dr. Lecter had been in close contact with her, and she promised to send Will’s regards. He also learned that Dr. Lecter had been forced to take leave for his own mental health after a team of FBI agents nearly broke down his door in the middle of the night and destroyed his house in a fruitless search. Mrs. Ashton lowered her voice when she added that she had heard there was a younger man there when the search began, and the officers made him stand on Hannibal’s sidewalk in nothing but a red silk sheet while they conducted their search. Will looked positively scandalized by the story, and Mrs. Ashton assured him that last part was only gossip, but _still._ He had particular fun relaying his chance encounter to Hannibal during that night’s cooking session. 

In early August, Will started marking days off of his calendar and began searching for homes for his dogs. He had put it off as long as he could, but he knew he would only hurt them if he continued waiting. He talked his neighbor who owned an expansive plot of land bordering Will’s own property to take Jack and Max. The man liked the idea of having two good-sized dogs around, and Will liked the idea they would be close to home, together, and free to roam the man’s small farm. Price had asked how Harley was doing on more than one occasion after keeping her during Will’s hospital stay, and when Will “accidentally” ran into him in the cafeteria one day, he casually mentioned that he was rehoming some of his pack. Price tried not to look too eager, but he offered to pick her up from Will’s home that night. Will told him that Harley and Ellie were a package deal, and Price reluctantly accepted. 

One day in mid-August, Will found Alana Bloom waiting for him outside of his classroom. She looked different than Will remembered from their early summer conversation-- more severe. Her lips were a bright red, and the dress she wore was patterned a stark black and white. He felt uneasy even before she spoke. 

“I haven’t seen you in months. I thought I should stop by, check in,” she offered as a greeting.

“Here I am. Still sane, if you were concerned,” he feebly joked. 

“I wasn’t concerned about your sanity, Will. I just haven't had a chance to see how everything is going.”

There was something off in her voice even if the words were ostensibly friendly. They felt rehearsed. 

“I appreciate that,” Will replied, playing along. “I’m good. Class is going well. No news is good news, right?” He forced a smile at that. “You?”

Alana shrugged and looked down the hallway as she began walking with him. 

“Same. Nothing much to report. I’m afraid I’m pretty boring.”

“Still Mason Verger’s psychiatrist?”

Alana smiled tensely, “I can’t technically say yes.”

Will nodded his understanding. 

“That must add some excitement to your life,” he casually probed, hoping to suss out a clue as to her true intention for seeking him out. 

“Yeah, it’s...always interesting at Muskrat Farm,” Alana provided haltingly. Her expression was guarded again, and Will wondered if she’d gotten a lot of practice at masking her emotions as Mason’s therapist. “Margot is due soon, so that’s something to look forward to. It’s a boy.”

“I’m glad for her,” Will responded truthfully. “If I’m being honest, I’m also a little surprised. Mason doesn’t seem like someone who would enjoy sharing the spotlight.”

Alana’s mask slipped for just a moment, and Will watched her in his periphery. There was something painful she was keeping at bay. 

“She’s been exceedingly cautious. Won’t even drive-- you never know when a brake line might spontaneously go out,” Alana commented dryly.

Will felt a harsh wave of sympathy for Margot Verger flow through his body. She would be fearful, jumpy, maybe even paranoid, though not without good cause. Had Alana appointed herself the woman’s protector? Will could imagine Alana feeling compelled to assume that role. 

“I heard Hannibal went to France,” Alana switched topics abruptly. “And you’re going to Europe this fall, right?”

“He is, and I am.” Will didn’t offer more information.

“Where are you going, anyway?” She tried to sound curious, but it bordered on interrogatory. 

Will was starting to get a sense of what game they were playing now, although he was still missing some pretty significant pieces.

“Zurich,” Will lied. The lie came quickly and easily, and he couldn’t consciously account for why he felt it necessary.

“I’ve never been there. You’ll have to send me pictures.” She waited a moment before inquiring, “Are you going to meet up with one another while you’re both abroad?” Alana tried to ask it lightly, but she had always had trouble pulling her punches. 

“We plan on meeting at some point,” Will said, which was true. He elaborated, “I think I’ll take the train to Paris a few days after I land. There are galleries Hannibal thinks I’d enjoy.” 

This was also untrue, and Will still couldn’t determine what his mind had noticed in Alana’s words or behavior that made him so reticent to be forthright with her.

“He’ll be a great tour guide,” she observed lamely. 

There was a moment of not-quite-comfortable silence as they exited the building. 

“How’s Applesauce?”

Alana smiled genuinely then, and Will felt like he was seeing the woman he knew emerge from an Alana-shaped shell. 

“Great, wonderful. I don’t want to say the light of my life, but…,” Alana laughed. 

Will smiled back, grateful for this single safe topic. 

“Would Applesauce like some friends?”

Alana looked surprised at the question.

“I’ll be in Europe for quite a while. It’s not fair to the dogs to leave them with strangers and then take them back as soon as they get adjusted. I’m rehoming.” Will struggled to say it, and he couldn’t look her in the eyes.

“She always loved Buster,” Alana offered, grinning. “She loved all of them, though, if Buster is already taken.”

Will’s affection for her grew again at her offer. 

“Buster and Zoey are still looking for homes if you want a two-for-one.”

“I would like that,” Alana agreed. 

“I appreciate it, Alana,” he thanked earnestly. “I have to go, but I can bring them here on Friday if you’ll be in the office.”

“I will, if it’s no trouble for you.”

“It’s not. Thanks again,” Will said, and they separated into the sea of cars in the parking lot. 

That night, Will gave the remaining dogs a bath and replayed the conversation with Alana over and over in his mind. The mention of Mason Verger always made him wary, but there was something inherent in Alana’s tone and body language that had caused Will to feel defensive. He had the inclination to call Hannibal just to talk through his thoughts until he figured out his reaction, but it was the middle of the night in Paris. Hannibal enjoyed their Wednesday appointments, but Will would feel like a teenage girlfriend if he woke Hannibal up just to talk about his feelings following an objectively uneventful conversation. 

Will dropped Buster and Zoey off with Alana on Friday as promised. She had brought Applesauce to help make the newcomers feel at-home, and the dogs’ glee at seeing one another proved an effective distraction. At noon on Saturday, sitting by the stream with Winston, he finally broke down and called Hannibal. 

_“Will.”_

He raised his eyebrows at the flat greeting.

“Hello, Hannibal. Is this a bad time?”

He could hear noise in the background, people talking and perhaps music.

_“Never. Give me a moment to find a quieter location.”_

Will heard the sound of someone moving through a crowd, the crowd fading, a door closing, and then silence.

_“My apologies. I’m at a dinner celebration for a colleague from Johns Hopkins. He summers here.”_

Will fully rolled his eyes at “summers.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt, but I think we should amend our travel plans.”

There was silence on the other end of the line, and Will realized Hannibal probably thought this was Will’s prelude to telling Hannibal he had changed his mind and not to wait for him.

“I don’t think I should come to Paris,” Will added hastily. “I had a conversation with Alana a few days ago. We talked about my trip. It was...odd. I can’t explain why, but I would feel better if we met at our final destination instead.”

Will imagined Hannibal, standing in a bedroom of a fancy Parisian chateau, mulling over the words.

_“I trust your instincts and am glad to defer to them. I’ll wait for you there.”_

“I know. I’ll be there,” Will said and hung up.

They had planned on meeting in Paris, staying a few days, and then winding their way to Florence. An eternal call to the airline and $400 later, Will moved his flight back three days and changed his route. As long as he got where he ultimately needed to be, the pathway wasn’t important. Hannibal would beat him there, but Will flippantly thought it would probably do him good to wait a few days longer instead of getting exactly what he wanted, when he wanted it.

On that final day in July, Will handed his house keys over to a young couple. The girl was Will’s student over a year ago, and her fiance was moving to Virginia to join her as she finished training. They were looking for a larger place to rent; Will’s farmhouse-- advertised on a bulletin board post in the cafeteria-- more than fit the bill. 

As a rule, Will hated the idea of anyone in his home except for him, but he hated even more the idea that his house would sit like a tomb, collecting dust and vulnerable to intrusions. He didn’t have anything left in the home worth stealing, but the mental image of rain and insects coming in through a shattered window during Will’s extended absence made him cringe. He had just made the house respectable, and he’d be damned if it was going to be wasted like that. The final nudge Will had needed to agree to rent the home to the young couple came when the woman, Rebecca, visited the house for a tour. She was a dog person, and Winston warmed to her right away, trailing behind her the entire time with cartoonish adoration in his eyes. She agreed to let Winston remain as a permanent tenant, and Will knocked $200 a month off the rent on the spot. 

Will spent his final two nights in the United States in Hannibal’s vacant house. It was covered in draped furniture that mimicked ghosts looming in the darkness at night, but it smelled like home. 

From the time he locked Hannibal’s door behind him on the morning of his travels, everything seemed to move in slow motion. He sat at his gate in the airport rereading the same article over and over, trying to get the words to make sense. The flights were interminable, and Will compulsively checked his watch every ten minutes. He repeated this cycle multiple times before he landed in Italy. Collecting his sparse luggage and making his way to the train could have taken minutes or days; it made no difference in the dreadful time warp Will found himself navigating. Even his walking felt slower, muscles refusing to move as quickly as his mind commanded them. 

When he arrived in Palermo at long last, Hannibal sent him an address for a small rental flat. They would only stay here a few days before traveling to Florence, but Hannibal preferred the privacy of an apartment. Will found the place with moderate difficulty, and he forced himself to shower and brush his teeth instead of simply dropping his bags and rushing to the site that marked the culmination of his journey. Cleaned and changed into clothes that didn’t smell of sweat and airport fast food, every cell buzzed with anticipation. Some part of him whispered that he ought to be ashamed to be so enthused, but the much louder part-- the one that had given away his beloved dogs and home-- reminded him that he had more than earned this small slice of joy. There would be horrors to come, no doubt-- fear, hurt, and threats from unknown adversaries; however, on this sunny day in Italy, he deemed himself worthy of happiness.

The courtyard of the Norman Palace was lit by golden beams. Will gazed at the architecture and pictured Hannibal there as a young man, seeing the structure and thus laying the first bricks of his memory palace. Will wondered if some part of the building rising heavenward around him would eventually find its way to his stream. This thought-- his stream winding through Hannibal’s palatial construction-- consumed him for several peaceful minutes. He did not notice he had been joined until he saw in his periphery a man standing intimately close to him. For a flash of a second, Will had the wild idea that if he looked directly at Hannibal, he would simply cease to exist, a figment of his overactive imagination. But he felt the other man’s presence radiate like heat from a flame, and he couldn’t stop himself from turning to face him.

Finally beholding one another again, Hannibal reached out his hand to gently touch Will’s. When their skin met, they both breathed more deeply at the confirmation of one another’s continued existence. Will never felt more present in the world than when he was with Hannibal, and the longer he knew him, the more he suspected no length of time or stretch of space would alter that. They smiled widely and let their gazes fortify one another, as though simply casting their eyes on each other could make them real in this world. Will was washed in the warmth of the sun and of Hannibal’s gleaming eyes.

For many seconds, they stood without speaking, absorbing one another’s existence. When Hannibal spoke, it was just above a whisper: “If I saw you every day, forever, Will, I would remember this time.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

September in Maryland was still uncomfortably hot. Mason Verger sat in his wheelchair on the deck of his summer estate, two fans blowing cool air toward him. Alana Bloom stood at the edge of the space and watched Mason’s conversation with the dangerous man planted before him.

“It’s hot as hell, Dr. Bloom,” Mason complained as he looked over to Alana. “Makes a man glad to be right with _The Riz_.” Mason turned back to the man. “Have you accepted Jesus as your _personal_ savior? You might want to consider it before you go gallivanting around Europe.”

The man remained silent, eyes fixed on Mason. 

“Don’t be such a _chatterbox_ ,” he taunted. “You seem like a businessman. Reminds me of my father. That’s a very _good_ sign. I’m tired of being disappointed.”

Mason rolled closer to the man and examined him. Alana watched and knew it was as much to predict the silent man’s chance of catching Hannibal as it was to see if the man flinched at Mason’s deformed visage. The man passed the test, as Alana knew he would.

“Here’s the deal. I will pay one-million dollars for Dr. Lecter's head and hands. I will privately pay three-million dollars for the doctor alive, no questions asked, discretion guaranteed. For all other _applicants_ , I require an intact fingerprint to prove they have found my man and not another smarmy Soviet dropout.” Mason looked at Alana again as he continued, “But Dr. Bloom assures me of your _virtue_ , so I will pay a cash advance of $100,000 to fund expenditures associated with capturing Hannibal Lecter alive.”

“And Will Graham?” the man asked. 

Mason Verger laughed sharply. 

“Don’t you know your Shakespeare? ‘Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments,’” Mason answered, holding his hand out like he was speaking to a skull regardless of the fact he was not quoting _Hamlet_. “In other words, I’m going to kill them both. Are you interested in bagging the doctor and the patient?”

The man cocked his head to the side, looking at Mason through narrowed eyes. He responded, “It’s more dangerous to catch one than both.”

“Well, well, well,” Mason cooed, “Dr. Bloom has brought me a man with _moxie._ I love it. A million dollar bonus if the doctor’s boytoy is included in your delivery. Do we have a deal, _Agent_ Crawford?”

The man’s face stayed blank as he finally answered, “Yes, we do, Mr. Verger. And please, call me Jack.”

**Author's Note:**

> First fic, and I'm terrified! 
> 
> I watched "Mizumono" one too many times and couldn't help thinking of all the points in time where Will could have avoided that outcome. This fic is based on what may have occurred if Will allowed himself a few moments of honesty between seeking vengeance and pretending to suddenly be a murder protege. Perhaps, he would have realized how much his reckoning stood to cost him long before the infamous "They know" call.


End file.
